


Glass & Patron

by imperatorkhaleesi



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Bisexual Female Character of Color, Black Character(s), Cunnilingus, Eventual Smut, F/M, Female Character of Color, Gotham AU, Mild Smut, Original Female Character(s) - Freeform, POV Female Character, Pre-Gotham, Reader Insert
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-23
Updated: 2018-07-24
Packaged: 2018-09-26 00:37:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 71,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9854189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imperatorkhaleesi/pseuds/imperatorkhaleesi
Summary: You're Marguerite Elliot. Beautiful, brilliant, black, funny, rich, and a Wayne (by adoption, as you like to remind people).But the only thing that impressed him is how adept you are at breaking people's hands.An AU Gotham fic, where you're Bruce's older sister. Sort of.





	1. Get Some

**Author's Note:**

> Take the journey.

 It’s only after you pound the flat of your hand against Carmine Falcone’s door and wait the six seconds for it to swing open that you even think to be afraid. You’ve been sustained this whole time by anger and indignation, by a need to protect, you haven’t worried about just how likely you are to survive this encounter. But you’re already committed and the bodyguard’s glare is so sharp that you can’t back down now. You dart past him and into the cavernous office, a knot of deep anxiety worming it’s way down your throat and into your chest.

Falcone is just a man in person, dwarfed by the legend of his infamous firebombs and killings. His presence, the sharp lever of his gaze, is really what alludes to his strength. He’s surrounded by men. All manners of them. The bodyguard closes the door behind you and you spread your arms and legs, sighing through your nose as his hands slowly work down from your sides. You fix your eyes forward, smile at Falcone gently, then let your eyes track over the room. It’s very him; classic oak paneling, stone fireplace in the wall to your right. His desk is a behemoth, a double pedestal made out of ancient-looking mahogany, with beautiful carved plinths at the bases, and an intricately carved rendition of the Falcone family crest in the panel facing you.

The bodyguard deliberately, clearly, gropes your ass. You spin before you can stop yourself, grabbing his right hand and pulling it sharply upward, then kicking the back of his knee and shoving him by his right shoulder to the ground, his arm wrenched behind him upward in your hands, his wrist cocked at an awkward and painful looking angle. He lets out a sharp cry. You glare, your heart racing as you hear an untold number of safeties click off.

“Watch your hands, mate, or I’ll break them off,” you say, your softened English accent commanding and stabbing through the edges of the flat New Englander. The bodyguard glares at you as you hold his arm in place, his anger undercut by the pain in his eyes. You hear chuckles as you release his arm and step away. He rises to his feet, then advances on you. You have your arms up in a defensive position when Carmine clears his throat.

“Stop,” The bodyguard freezes and turns to him. His gaze is piercing. “Did you touch my guest inappropriately?” The bodyguard blanches a bit, then starts to shake his head.

“I swear I—”

“Quiet.” He falls silent immediately. “Stand over by the window.” He does.

“Victor,” Carmine continues, raising a cigar to his lips. “Since you’re here. Check her. Don’t be cheeky.” A pale, bald man, dressed in a crisp black suit and pristine black Doc Martens steps out from behind Carmine’s desk and moves toward you. You raise your arms and spread your legs, again. Your mother didn’t raise a stupid woman. You wore a t-shirt dress, leggings, your favorite boots, and an oversized cardigan. Your long braids are pushed behind your ears, the ones usually hanging in your face pulled back into a low ponytail. You can only imagine how you look, in the middle of this room of professional bad guys, dressed like you just left a dance studio, with a long scar, still red, marring your brown cheek.

He holds your cardigan open, to inspect your dress, the pats down each pocket. His hands then go to your sides, just underneath your armpits, skim down your waist to your hips, then down each leg. Then your arms, left first, down to your hand. When he reaches your right hand, balled up in a fist, he gives you a look. You open it, a key between your fingers. He plucks it out of your palm, then continues his search, patting down your chest, pulling your room key necklace and your mother’s pyramid-shaped pendant out, and your back, his fingers skimming down your spine. He stops in front of you, his dark brown, almost black eyes fixed on yours.

“She’s clean,” he murmurs, holding up the key.

“Check her hair too,” Carmine murmurs. You give him a look over the man’s shoulder.

“Seriously, Carmine?”

“I’ve had more than one black woman sneak her way in here and try to kill me with a knife she stashed in her afro,” Carmine replies. “I don’t take chances.”

“My hair isn’t even…bollocks it, go on,” you sigh, rolling your eyes as the man runs his hands through your hair, from scalp to ends, and you shiver gently when his fingers skim the back of your neck. Satisfied, Carmine beckons for you to come closer and you oblige, standing before his desk.

“Please sit, Ms. Wayne,” he gestures to the seat by you.

“I’d rather stand, thanks. I’m not going to be here long,” you start. Three behind you, not including the pale man, who was packing at least three different ways to kill you. Two by each window. Four behind the desk, not including Falcone, whose left hand had dropped below his desk top when you walked in. A partition in the corner, with a suit hanging from it. Looks like no one is back there, at best there’s an escape exit, but you’re not gonna need to take the risk. Hopefully.

“What can I do for you then?” Falcone replies. You clear your throat.

“I dunno if you’ve noticed,” you start, gesturing to your face, “but I was in a bit of a barney not too long ago.”

“I did. It’s a shame, you’re a very pretty girl. Spitting image of Carmen.” You barely stifle your flinch at his mention of your mother.

“Well,” you say, “you have one of your boys to blame for this.” Falcone’s eyes narrow. The pale man shifts behind you. You’re trying not to shake from the anxiety, your adrenaline is still spiked from that run-in with the bodyguard, but you manage to stay calm.

“Why would that be?”

“My uni roommate, Madison Lee, two or so months ago, got a loan for her tuition from one of your sharks. A week ago he came round the dorms, asking for half the money plus interest. When she explained why, for obvious reasons, she didn’t have it, he got very physical, and I had to get very physical in return. He showed up again, three deep, a day ago. We got this,” you gesture to your face, “and a broken window for his trouble. I tried to rectify the situation, but he’s clearly quite upset. So I decided to come to you to straighten things out.”

Falcone watches you. Then delicately places his cigar on the asher by his elbow and steeples his fingers.

“So it’s you,” he replies, “that threw one of my men out of a third story window and has my loan man pissed. What are you proposing?”

You take a deep breath. “The fact of the matter is, I don’t want to keep kneecapping your men. I have midterms in less than a week. And you don’t want your men to keep getting kneecapped. Most importantly of all, since you’re trying to go legitimate, you don’t want the bad press that would come with a socialite getting hurt or murdered by your men over a little thing like $7,000. So. I’ll pay off her debt, and she’ll never take money from you or your men ever again. And we’ll never speak of this.”

Falcone watches you. Then tilts his head, slowly.

“If you’re worried,” you broach a joke, “I’m an Elliot by birth and a Wayne by adoption. You know I’m good for it.” Falcone smiles. The anxiety knot in your chest loosens a bit.

“You’re a damn good negotiator, Marguerite,” he murmurs. “Perhaps when you graduate you’d be interested in working at my nephew’s law firm.” You smile back.

“I’m flattered, but I don’t think Thomas would take a shine to that.” Falcone laughs, his left coming up to the table top empty.

“He surely wouldn’t. So,” he leans back in his seat. “Where is this debt payment?”

You bite your lip. “Sorry, but. I’m going to need you to say it.”

“Say what?”

“I know you’re a man of your word. I need verbal confirmation of our agreement.”

Falcone smiles wider. “You’ll be wasted over at Wayne Enterprises, you know that?” He rises to his feet. “Lift up your shirt.” Your eyes go wide.

“ _Excuse me?_ ”

“You want verbal confirmation. I want to know that you’re not wearing a wire.”

“Your man just checked me!”

“All the same.” He gestures for you to lift your dress. You realize now you’re in deep “this is already so weird, this other thing might as well happen” territory and you sigh, then nod to the partition, jabbing your thumb at the pale man.

“Can _he_ at least check me back _there_?” Falcone nods, then gestures to the pale man. You walk over to the far corner, sliding your cardigan off your shoulders and handing it to him as you go. He’s turning the sleeves inside out when he joins you back there, then tosses it over the top to hang there. You yank your dress over your head, toss it over the partition too, then put your hands on your head and wait. His (hairless, you finally notice) eyebrow cocks.

“We’re well past the point of modesty, mate,” you sigh. His eyes fix on yours and his hands cup your breasts through your lacy black bra. You inhale, sharp, as his fingers reach underneath the band, and go around to your back, probing. Then over the edges of the cups, his gloved fingertips skimming against your skin, lingering just under too long. Then the straps; his knuckles brush against your neck and you shiver, again. His hands drop to your waistband, and he pulls it away from you. You stiffen.

“Past modesty, right?” He says. He’s waiting for you, you realize, and you nod. He peers in. Then looks up at your chest. “Hm.” Your eyes narrow.

“What?” He says nothing, reaches behind you, and you feel his leather covered palms skim across your lower back, his fingers scarcely touching the lace on your panties. Your body reacts, instantly, heat flooding all across your skin and sinking lower into your core. Your breath hitches, softly as he pulls his hands out, lays the waistband back against your skin, and drops to his knees.

“Well, would you look at that,” he’s kneeling before you and staring up at you with a huge, surprisingly silly grin. He gestures to your boots, then his. “We match! The odds!” You shut your eyes briefly. _This also might as well happen._

He nudges your knee. “You can drop your arms now. Lift your right foot,” he says, and you obey, standing stock still as he checks the heel of your Doc Martens. “And your left.” You do, switching your center of balance with nary a wobble. He rises to his feet.

“Are you a dancer?” he queries, picking up your dress. You stare at him. He looks up from his inspection. “You’ve got good balance.”

“I was,” you reply, the end of your sentence curling upward into a question.

“Ballet, I bet,” he shakes out your dress, and looks you up and down, his head tilting to the side, the corner of his mouth quirking so slightly, you almost think you imagined it. “You’ve got the build.”

“Thank you?” He hands it back to you and you yank it back on, meeting his gaze as he holds your cardigan by the shoulders. You slowly slide back into the sleeves, and he lays the fabric across your shoulders, delicately pulling your braids out of your collar. You’re expecting it this time, but you can’t help but shiver again as his gloved hands brush against your neck.

“Peppermint,” he murmurs. “Right?” _What?_ You turn to look at him. His gaze is fixed on your hair. You blink, then nod.

“And shea butter,” you add. He hums, then smiles as he leans toward you, the soft and unexpectedly pleasant scent of pine wafting over you.

“You smell really good,” he replies. “Don’t think I didn’t hear that sweet little gasp.” Then he exits. You’re a tiny bit befuddled and more than a bit overheated when you follow him out from behind the partition and back to the spot in front of Carmine’s desk, but you can’t let yourself get distracted right now.

“She’s still clean,” he says. Carmine, still standing, offers his hand to you. 

“If you pay off Madison Lee’s debt, and she no longer uses our…services, in perpetuity, I swear that I and my men will bring no harm her or you, on pain of death. You have my word.” You take his hand and shake it. When he releases you, you gesture to the pale man behind you.

“That gentleman there who stopped short of checking my tonsils is holding a key. It’s the key to a safe deposit box at Gotham First National Bank. In that box is $15,000. I expect that’ll cover interest plus damages.” Falcone nods.

“It certainly shall.”

“Thank you,” you say. “I hope we never see each other again. Outside of charity benefits,” you add, turning to exit, your eyes alighting on the pale bald man as you glide past him.

“Wayne,” Falcone catches your attention. You stop and turn. “My men. They didn’t hurt the two of you too badly, did they?” You grin before you can stop yourself, and you can clearly see Falcone is taken aback by it.

“No,” you say. “I’m sure the hospital bills you received from them reflect that. That’s another thing I inherited from my mum.”

 

Your calm breaks when, after a subway ride and five minute walk, you reach your dorm. When you get to the elevator, and the doors close, you collapse, your hands sweating, and your body shaking from a barely contained panic attack. You heart hammers in your chest, sharp, terrifying, your palms drenched in sweat. When did you start crying? You breathe. You can hear your mother’s lilting voice in your head: _You made it. You’re fine. You did it. You’re fine. I’m bloody proud of you. Now to bed. Up you get._

You can only manage to drag your body off the floor, trudge to your room, and collapse in bed, vowing to call your roommate and give her the all-clear to come back in the morning. You crawl under your sheets, calm, but still exhausted, the sensation of the pale man’s hands still lingering on your skin.


	2. Fade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You thought you'd never see Zsasz again. Obviously you thought wrong.
> 
> Title: "Fade" by Kanye West. I literally changed my mind on the title as I hit post.

“Well?” You look up from your laptop and at Madison, her brown eyes shining anxiously against her dark, pretty face. She drops her suitcase and backpack next to her desk, kicks off her sneakers, and joins you on your bed. You shrug. “Fuck you mean shrug? What _happened_?”

“I took care of it,” you reply. Madison takes your hands.

“You can’t leave it there,” she says, and you meet her eyes again. “You just call me yesterday morning like ‘it’s all good, hope you worked on your Anthro paper’ and expect me not to ask questions?”

“It’s fine, Madi—” you begin.

“Well, what about my tuition? What about our window? What if—”

“Madi,” you shush her. “It’s fine. I called the Wayne Foundation and they happened to have an available scholarship that hadn’t been allocated out. I submitted an application on your behalf. You’re a shoo-in. So much so, I may have convinced Mr. Wayne to pay out your first year so you could cover spring. And sorry, but I had to take most of this semester’s money to pay off your debt. There’s a cheque for the leftover amount on your desk.” Madison’s bottom lip quivers and her face scrunches up as she begins to cry, throwing her arms around your neck.

“Thank you,” she sobs. “I don’t know what I would have done without you.”

“Don’t thank me,” you reply airily, patting her curly short hair. “Thank high school you for those amazing grades. When I showed Thomas your transcript he lost his mind. Couldn’t give up the money fast enough.” 

“I mean it,” she says, smiling at you. “I have no idea how I’ll repay you for this.” You grin as you pick up a sleeve of your cardigan and wipe her face with it.

“Maybe work on that Anthro paper? You lost a day being in hiding and all. And maybe some of that jollof you brought from home after Thanksgiving.” 

“Oh, absolutely. My mom’s making a care package for you as we speak,” she laughs, standing and walking over to her bed. She collapses onto it, letting out a soft sigh. You smile to yourself as you return to your essay. You’re genuinely relieved. Madison is the nicest person you’ve ever met, and she works harder than anyone you’ve ever met, with a job at the campus bookstore on top of a full course load and being a staff writer at the paper. She’d been nothing but friendly and warm to you, before she even found out you’re, as you like to call it, Wayne-adjacent.

When you found out about her tuition troubles, she’d been insistent to the point of stubborn about you not getting involved. But after you’d come back to your room after TAing a class, seen the loan shark with his hand around her throat, and broke his fingers for his foolishness, you refused to let her go at it by herself. She didn’t owe you, you thought. Just knowing that she could continue to go to school and work fewer hours without worrying was comfort enough.

So what if you fudged the truth a little; Thomas had plenty of money to make additional scholarship funds available at the 11th hour. He was glad to do it when you told him about Madison’s brilliant ass. And you had the clout to throw around, so why not?

Maybe this needed to be a regular occurrence, you muse. After all, you and Bruce combined have more money than you’d be able to spend in your lifetimes. You should call Thomas tomorrow and talk to—

“What about the window? And those guys?” Madison says, breaking your reverie.

You grin. “That,” you nod to the boarded up window, “is covered by insurance. And campus security has photos of the guys who attacked us, but between you, me, and the massive hole in our wall, they won’t be coming around again.”

Madison sighed. “I’ll take your word for it. In the meantime,” she added, bounding out out of bed and walking over to her desk. “I’m gonna get cracking on that paper. I didn’t do nearly enough revising at home.”

“Well,” you laugh, “in your defense, you di—”

A loud, sharp knock cuts you off. Madison moves to answer it. She peers through the peephole, then meets your gaze, her face anxious, her fingers already fiddling with the drawstring on her hoodie.

“There’s some bald guy out there.” You rise, immediately, your tank dress billowing around your knees, gesturing for her to move back over to her bed as you yank your cardigan over your shoulders. You walk over to your desk, and pull a gun out, the one that you brought from Wayne Manor after the loan shark’s first visit, and move to the door. You pull it open, your gaze sharp. The pale bald man, from Falcone’s office, stands there, in a black pinstripe suit, crisp black shirt, and those favored matching black Doc Martens, suspenders hanging around his knees and a metal box in his gloved hands.

“How did you get up here?” You say, your voice steel, your palms sweating a bit. He rolls his eyes.

“Do you wanna know the hardest part about killing people?” He says, in an undertone. You squeeze the gun’s grip, your pointer finger slipping under the trigger guard. He doesn’t wait for your response. “It’s not the killing. It’s the getting away with it. The getting in and out of places undetected part. I’m good at what I do.”

Your eyes narrow further. “It’s nice that you have pride in your work. What do you want?” He moves forward. You step in front of him, your gun hand next to your thigh, just able to be seen behind your cardigan. “You’re not coming in.” His head tilts.

“You don’t want to have this conversation out here any more than I do.”

You lean toward him. “I think you don’t wanna way more than I do.”

“Hey,” Madison appears behind you, her hand on the edge of her desk. “Let him in. It’s fine.” You turn to look at her. She nods. “Really. I can handle it.” You look back at him, then sigh, moving out of the way and gesturing with the gun toward the corner of your bed furthest from Madison. He walks in, and you push the door closed, beckoning for Madison to stand behind you. He stands in front of the spot you indicated, then spreads his legs and raises his arms.

“Oh no,” you say. “Unnecessary. If you wanted to kill us, you would have already. Sit.” He tsks.

“Shame. I was hoping for some reciprocity,” he murmurs as he sits, unbuttoning his jacket in a single smooth movement. You see a glint of something familiar on either side of his waist and you feel a shiver run down your back.

“Sorry to disappoint you.” You direct your attention to Madison as you hand her the gun. “You remember how to handle this, right?” She nods, then steps back toward the door. You can’t help but feel a little glow of pride as she checks the safety and aims the gun at him perfectly.

“Like you said,” he says, the box sitting next to him, his hands clasped in between his open legs, “if I wanted to kill you I would have. The gun is unnecessary.”

“The gun is a safety measure,” you reply.

“I feel more comfortable knowing I have the ability to shoot you in the head if you try to attack us,” she adds on, her hands steady. “Don’t begrudge me my coping methods.” The man shrugs. You know as well as he does that Madison having the gun means nothing; he's a trained assassin. But Madison is jittery, and being able to protect herself comforts her enough for her to be calm, so you won't begrudge her coping methods either. At least until you have time to _really_ teach her how to protect herself.

You redirect your gaze to him. He looks a bit strange, a blank, black void, sitting on the edge of your bed with it’s deep red bedspread. Strange, not because he looks out of place, but somewhat like he belongs in your space, fits into your things. Like he’d blend into your life as easily as the matte black brass knuckles in your bag, the ones you used to hit the loan shark, slide onto your fingers.

You don’t know if you like what that says about you. But that's a battle you've been fighting your whole life and you don't have the energy to take it up again right this second.

“That’s a pull trigger, not squeeze,” he says to her. “Don’t curl your finger or it’ll lock up.” You step out of the line of fire and lean against your desk, a few feet away from him.

“She knows,” you snap, impatiently. “What do you want?” His eyes quickly track down your body, most likely clocking you for weapons, but you very suddenly remember the way his gloved hands felt on your bare skin. He smiles, as if he can read your mind, but says nothing, just proffers the metal box next to him.

“It’s for her,” he says, nodding to Madison as you take it. You test the weight in your hands. Too light to be a bomb. You open it. Stacks of fresh bills sit on top of each other. “Falcone said to consider it as a supplemental grant. No strings, no expectations, no home calls from this point on. Just deep apologies and well wishes.”

“So his answer to me almost dying because I borrowed money from him is to give me more money?” Madison says, sighing. You close the box.

“Don’t be rude, it’s a gift from the Don. Would you like it?” You ask, holding the box aloft. Madison shakes her head vigorously.

“Thanks, much appreciated, but no. I learned my lesson.” You nod, then hold it out to the man again. He shakes his head.

“Falcone made it very clear that I shouldn’t come back with that money.”

“Well,” you reply, tossing it back onto the bed next to him, “tell Mr. Falcone that he’s just made a generous donation to the Wayne Foundation Scholarship Program.” You take the gun from Madison, flicking the safety back on, and she backs out of the way, to the portion of wall next to her desk. “You can leave now…”

“Zsasz,” he says, rising. “Victor.” You haul the door open.

“Goodbye, hopefully forever, Zsasz comma Victor,” you gesture for him to leave. He buttons his jacket, nodding to Madison. He stops in front of you, his eyes tracking down your body, his eyes lingering on your strappy bra underneath your flimsy dress, your cardigan tossed carelessly over your shoulders, before he stops at the gun in your hand.

“That Glock is too big for your hands, angel,” he notes. “You’d be better off with a Walther PPK.” Your temper flares a bit, and you can’t help it. You step in front of him as he’s about to walk out and your eyes narrow.

“Not that I owe you and your condescending advice an explanation, but I don’t like Walthers,” you reply. “Caliber’s too small. If I’m shooting at something, I wanna put it down and keep it down. Though I suppose that’s something you’d understand, considering you carry around modded SIG Sauer GSRs,” you add on, your eyes darting down to the twin bulges under his jacket on either side of his waist. “I clocked them when you sat down.” Your eyes slowly move back up to his, and he’s smirking a bit, assessing you. You can feel your face getting warm, but you keep your gaze locked on his, feeling more exposed now than when you were down to your bra in front of him. His deep brown, startlingly beautiful eyes on you feel like a heavy, lingering touch, and you’re hot all over, thinking of how his bare hands would feel, running over your lips, gripping the back of your neck, sliding between your legs, touching you.

“You know, sweetness,” he murmurs, moving closer to you, close enough that you can smell his clean, pine scented cologne again, “when I first saw you, I figured you were the kind of girl to match her bra to her panties. Meticulous. Exacting. Delicate. A little predictable, even. And while I know I was right about that, I’m pleased to know that you’re also just…full of surprises. Have a good evening, ladies.” He steps around you and out. You slam the door closed, letting out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding, your heart hammering a bit, though (as much as you hate to acknowledge it) not from fear. Madison appears at your elbow.

“What the fu—” You hold up your finger, watching the shadow underneath the door. It moves. You open the door again, step out, the gun still in your hands. Zsasz, waltzing down the empty hallway toward the lift, stops, and turns to meet your gaze. You glare, then turn toward the door, skimming your fingers around the corkboard. At the bottom, pinned to the back, is a small listening device. You rip it off, and storm down the hall, shoving the device against his chest.

“You forgot this,” you snarl, turning on your heel and walking back to your room, slamming the door for extra emphasis. You drop the gun on your desk, moving straight to the lockbox on your bed.

“Mar,” Madison says; you can hear the panic in her voice. “Who was that?”

“He’s one of Carmine Falcone’s men. I met him officially when I went to go sort all of this out.” You dump the box’s contents on your bed, and check the box for wires, then start flipping through stacks. Madison watches you for a moment, then picks up a stack.

“What am I looking for?” You try to take the money from her.

“Madi, no, this is my—”

“No, it’s _my_ fault,” she interrupts, pulling away from you. “ _I_ started this. Let me help you.” You sigh.

“You may have started this, but I escalated it by going to meet Falcone. He put a target on your back because of me.”

“Either way, we’re in this together. What am I looking for?” You sigh. She’s right, and you know it. You want to protect her, but you also know you have no choice.

“Wires or flat, thin metal boxes,” you say, dropping one stack and flipping through another. Madison joins you on the bed.

“I realize that in the midst of it all, that I didn’t get a chance to ask,” she starts, and your stomach drops. You don’t want her to ask the question you know she’s going to ask. Because how would you explain? “How do you know about all of this…stuff? Like the guns and the wires, and how to break a dude’s hand?”

You sigh, softly. “The long story is complicated. The short story is my mother. ”

“Fair,” Madison continues. “We’re gonna have to have a conversation about that at some point.” Then she sends you a mischievous look. “But for now...why does Zsasz comma Victor know that your underwear matches?” Your face warms, as you concentrate extra hard on the new stack in your hands.

“Falcone had him strip search me for wires. Don’t make it weirder than it already is,” you say. Madison’s eyebrows shoot up and she pointedly flips through a few bills.

“Well, if he weren’t clearly a goddamn hazard with legs, I’d say go and fuck him because you two were _vibing_. He was staring real hard, my friend. _Real hard._ Like he liked the free weekend preview and he’s _real_ ready to buy the cable package.”

“That’s the worst thing you’ve ever said to me.” It was funny, you have to admit, even if the content made you want to fight her, then hug her.

“Well you have a lot in common,” Madison says, placing the checked stacks back in the box. “You’re both badasses, you both know a lot about weapons, you both wanna fuck each other—”

“Ah, there’s the flaw. I absolutely _don’t_ want to do that,” you reply, glaring at her, maybe a little too hard. She read your body language perfectly and you hate it. And she knows that, based on the look she’s giving you now. That _Fam. You_ Know _What TF I’m Talking About_ Look that black women refined and own the patent on.

“Oh girl. That look you gave him when he tried to crack on you about your gun? I was uncomfortable just being in the room with you two.”

“That was not a sexy look, that was a glare,” you sigh. “I think we’re in the clear. Toss that one in.”

“Your glares _are_ your sexy looks. Think of how many numbers you got at that party after that heated debate with that lame ass white boy over femme fatales last year,” Madison flips through the last stack and drops it in the box. You it pick up and deposit it on your desk, then grab your phone to shoot a quick text to Alfred.

“Listen,” Madison says; goddamnit, she’s got that _You Can Be Mad But I’m Telling The Truth And We Both Know It So Receive This Word_ tone popular with black aunties and praying grandmothers the world over. Why does she do this so well. _Why_. “I’m not saying you _should_ fuck scary bald man. I’m saying, if you want to, you _could._ Because he _definitely_ wants to fuck you.”

“He’s just as likely to murder me, Madi. Don’t you have a paper to work on?”

“ _Fine_ ,” Madi replies, smirking as she wanders back over to her desk. “But I’m just _saying_.” You’re glad she feels comfortable enough to joke about things, but you’re still on edge after Zsasz’s visit, especially since he planted a goddamn listening device on your door. You think maybe you should tell her, but you hold off. Falcone said no strings after this. Maybe that was just insurance. You have to admit, even with all the terrifying stories you've heard about Falcone, you, like everyone else in Gotham, know that he’s a man of his word. He probably did mean it. 

Still, after Madi goes to bed, and you’re curled up in your sheets, your eyes fixed on the boarded-up window, you're running through all the possible scenarios and outcomes until you drop off into sleep.

You have two sex dreams about Zsasz.

You don’t tell Madison.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew! Two weeks later and here it is! I've been tweaking the story, and I didn't feel right posting without fixing what needed to be fixed so! What up, I'm out here dropping chapters like Beyonce does albums. No warning and completely at random!
> 
> Eagle eyed gun...enthusiasts, I suppose is the polite word, would note that Zsasz's guns mentioned here are the ones from season two on. I probably should have gone with the Colts he used in season one, but everyone and their mama used that gun in season one and I feel like the SIGs are way more Zsasz.  
> Speaking of, I don't know anything about guns, most of that was me guessing based on conjecture.  
> I also recently discovered that there's an IMDB for guns used in movies and television shows. America is fundamentally broken, friends.  
> Anyway! I'll try to post steadily! This story is taking on a shape! I have 68 pages!
> 
> Kudos and comments are appreciated! I'm usually a nightmare at replying to them but I shall try! But please know that if you've ever left a comment, you definitely made my entire day. Thanks for the love!
> 
> See you soon, be kind to each other!


	3. Wolf Like Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Then why the fuck are you here?”  
>  “I asked you first.” You roll your eyes, despite your best intentions.  
>  “I think that’s obvious, Zsasz,” you shoot back. He grins.  
>  “Awww, you remembered my name.”  
>  “Alright,” you reply, “good catching up. Never speak to me again.”  
>  “I mean,” he continues, “why are you working in a bookstore and your last name is Wayne?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Title: Wolf Like Me by TV on the Radio

You manage to go two weeks without worrying about Falcone or seeing Zsasz. Mostly because you’re too busy studying and taking midterms to worry. And Madison, despite the whole stressful ordeal, seems to take things in stride.

And you feel the same. You ace your midterms, Madison’s mom, Danielle, drops off a very hearty container of jollof rice for the both of you, and despite the fact that you’re working more hours than you would like at the used bookstore, everything looks good. And it’s not like you mind being there, per say. The reason you applied in the first place was because you’re already there so often, all through your childhood to now, you might as well be an employee. Cara, the owner, agreed.

Today, she had you as one of two employees on returns and shelving duty. She got a new shipment of books that morning, and after she and the morning shift shifted things and made room, it was your job as midshift to put the books out. Your cart, formerly stacked up with history books, was almost clear. You just had a few more to put out before your break. You wander toward the back of the bookshop, away from the tiny cafe, into the quiet, where the biographies are. Abandoning your cart at the front of a cluster of bookshelves and scooping up seven copies of _Assata_ , you wander toward the wall, where the aisles are narrower and less accommodating. You reach the right shelf, the one second from the very back, and move to the middle, bottom, where an open section is waiting for you.

“Well, well, well,” the back of your neck tingles and you know who it is before you even swing around to look, your arms laden with the copies. Zsasz is standing behind you at the start of the aisle, clad in his customary black ensemble, an old copy of _The Brothers Karamazov_ in his gloved hands. “What’s a rich girl like you doing working in a place like this?”

Your throat dries. Stupid, _stupid_. Once you’d gotten the money donated to the scholarship fund and the gun back into Alfred’s hands (he’d harangued you for three days until you broke down and told him everything, then made him swear down to not tell Thomas and Martha), you’d taken comfort in the idea that, despite the hiccup with the listening device, that the situation was resolved.

_Mum would be so disappointed in me_ , you think.

“Relax, angel,” he continues, lifting a book off the stack in your arms to inspect it. “You’re not in trouble. Neither is your friend…Madison, was it?”

“Then why the fuck are you here?”

“I asked you first.” You roll your eyes, despite your best intentions.

“I think that’s obvious, Zsasz,” you shoot back. He grins.

“Awww, you remembered my name.”

“Alright,” you reply, “good catching up. Never speak to me again.”

“I mean,” he continues, “why are you working in a bookstore and your last name is _Wayne_?”

You sigh. Then meet his gaze. “I wasn’t _born_ a Wayne. I’m barely an Elliot. My parents raised me lower middle class. I don’t spend anything I don’t earn.”

“Admirable,” he says, the corners of his mouth lifting.

Your eyes narrow into a glare. “Thank you, Mr. Condescension. What do you want?”

“First to say hi. Second,” he holds up the book. “To read this first edition.”

“Did Falcone send you to keep an eye on me?” Zsasz shrugs.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“So that’s yes,” you sigh, sliding the copies onto the shelf.

“And third, because this bookstore is the only place in a 50 mile radius that carries my favorite tea brand,” he counters. Well. That was unexpected. Especially since he struck you as an artisan coffee drinker. Either way, this would be the place for that; Cara loved that fancy bespoke coffee bullshit, and she assumed that every Gotham U student did too. To your eternal shame, Madison and most of the history department, and pretty much all of the people in your respective department did. Software programmers either had no coffee standards or were particular to the point of pretentiousness about it. The majority of your cohort fell in the latter category.

“Oh. Well. Job one done,” you reply. “Onto job two.”

Zsasz’s gaze is fixed on you, that unnerving look that makes you feel naked.

“Hm. I don’t quite know what to make of you,” he says, finally.

“I don’t want you to make anything of me,” you reply, fully turning to look at him.

Zsasz doesn’t speak; he turns away from you and walks back down the aisle the way you both came. Then stops. Turns to look at you.

“I didn’t plant that wire,” he says. “I didn’t even know it was there.”

“Do you expect me to believe that?”

“You’re a smart woman. So no. But I am telling the truth.”

“I don’t know you well enough to tell when you’re lying, friendo.”

“I’m not lying to you, Wayne. I told Mr. Falcone. He swore on his mother’s grave that he knew nothing about it.”

Huh. 

Unexpected.

He looks sincere to you. And you know that Carmine wouldn’t make such a statement or allow one of his men to repeat it unless it were true. But you’re still wary.

“Okay. Enjoy your tea,” you reply. Zsasz hesitates, then turns back around.

“Have fun with your books, rich girl,” he calls over his shoulder as he turns the corner.

Soon after, Cara takes you off book return duty and sets you on organizing the books on the main level of the bookstore, which requires a bunch of trips between the floor and the stockroom, past the cafe. Zsasz sits against the wall, by one of the windows, mostly focusing intently on the copy of _Brothers Karamazov_ you saw him with earlier, a cup of black tea sitting in front of him. Every so often your eyes stray to him, and once or twice, he’s looking at you; you remember the dreams you had, his tongue going across your skin, touching you, his hands on your neck and your hips, and you feel a hot rush. You curse to yourself, lamenting your body’s reaction to the memory.

Madison was embarrassingly right, of course. When you clocked his guns, and he’d smirked at you, you knew immediately you were in trouble. In all of your years on this earth, you’d never been attracted to a person that was good for you. Not once.

As you sit in the back organizing the book back stock by section, you muse on your last relationship. In your junior year of undergrad, when you’d decided to do a semester at the sister school Central City University, you met Linda, a really pretty journalism student who you fell head over heels with. But when you decided to move back to Gotham, to your home, for your last year of undergrad, she broke up with you, without a second thought, not even wanting to try out a long distance relationship. You were devastated; Linda was special to you, the first time you’d ever felt truly in love with someone. You spent most of the first half of your summer in bed at Wayne Manor, with then six year old Bruce bringing you food twice a day, and reading to you until you fell asleep. He’d managed to coax you out of your room and down to the dining room table by mid-July, and you were going with him and Alfred for beach trips by early August.

Your other relationships had been variating shades of okay and worse before that one, but that one stuck out. It was the most recent, and out of all of them, it had _hurt_ the worst. More likely than not because, despite Thomas and Martha’s best efforts to surrogate parent you, your father wasn’t there to comfort you, when he always managed to shepherd you through your worst heartbreaks. You were a wreck that entire year after their deaths, which probably added to why Linda broke up with you.

When you started Gotham U’s grad program two years ago, you decided, in light of your awful dating history, and because of the fact that you’d been essentially non-functional for two months post-breakup, that you weren’t going to get emotionally involved with anyone. And it worked. You had sex with a couple people, but no attachments. It also didn’t help that you were attached to two of the oldest and most powerful families in Gotham, and people tended to treat you differently when they found that out. But from your first boyfriend, to your first girlfriend, all the way through to Linda, you always picked the wrong people for you. And Zsasz was the textbook definition of the wrong person. But you’re smarter now. You weren’t gonna let Zsasz become the latest in a string of bad decisions.

But goddamnit, you’re staring at him while he reads. It’s hard not to; he’s striking, a whip of sleek, expensive-looking black in the midst of students and stress, brow furrowed as he adoringly pores over the old tome. It’s compelling, to look at him. And it isn’t like you’re seeking anything _romantic_ , right? It’d be good to be on at least _polite_ terms with someone so close to the king of Gotham, right?

So you sigh. And when your half starts, you come out of the back, _House of Leaves_ in your hands, and you walk toward the cafe, up to the counter, and you get Ari’s attention.

“Oi, Ari,” you say. They turn to look at you, brushing their thick curls out of their eyes.

“Hey! I’ll grab your food out of the fridge in a sec.” You jab a thumb in Zsasz’s direction.

“Thanks. One more request, after a question. What kind of tea did he order?” Ari tilts their head, their adorably round brown nose wrinkling in thought. You can see them rifling through files. Ari’s brain is a beautiful, well tuned machine. You think they probably have an eidetic memory, which comes in handy considering how many regulars the cafe gets.

“He got the Ceylon Black and Yunnan Red blend,” they say, reaching under the counter and handing you a paper bag.

“Can you give me a box and put it on my tab?” You say. Ari grins, wide, too excited, and you sigh. “Stop with the glee face. It’s not like that.”

“Uh huh,” they slide the box across the counter. “Suuuure. Your chai will be out in a few.” You take it, and turn, rolling your eyes as you go toward him. Ari has had to field about a thousand requests for your phone number since you started working there, they’re just too pleased you’re showing interest in someone. Even if you don’t mean it that way.

You think.

No.

You _know_.

“Now, _what_ is a mob man doing reading Dostoyevsky?” You say, setting the box in front of him, next to his cup. Zsasz looks at the box, then up at you, a soft smile spreading across his face.

“Ruminating on the ethical implications of free will,” he says, his face carrying a hint of seriousness.

“As one does,” you reply, grinning. Silence falls, then you say it, what you’ve been sitting on since that moment in your dorm. “I remember you, you know. From before. You came along with Falcone to the last Wayne Foundation gala. You have mean bodyguard face,” you add on, lightly.

The corner of his mouth quirks. “And I remember you,” he says, shutting his book. He points over to the table next to the counter, covered in inviting sunlight. “You were reading _NW_ over there, three and a half weeks ago. You looked ethereal,” he adds, as you feel your face warm.

“Yeah, well, sunlight tends to do that to me,” you demur.

“And modest. What a catch.” Your eyes narrow, slightly at him, but you know, you can tell that he doesn’t mean it maliciously.

“What can I say, I’m blessed, obviously,” you reply, gesturing to yourself. Zsasz laughs, softly, then falls silent. You nudge the box towards him. “On the house,” you say. You sit at the sunlit table, your drink and food at your elbow, and you open your book. Zsasz’s eyes are on you, you can feel it. You look up, smile gently, then look back down.

You don’t know why you really did it, or even why you approached him. It just felt _right._ Besides, he wasn’t there for anything malicious, right? He couldn’t be; the bookstore was a safe zone. Every crime lord in Gotham, _especially_ Falcone, knew not to start shit there. And he seemed docile enough. Thoughtful, even, considering he announced himself instead of just letting you be surprised by his presence.

That itself was another question. He’d seen you here. How did you not remember him? He was striking enough to remember, for sure. Or maybe, that just proved how good he was at his job, that he could hide, looking like that, in plain sight. And calling you _ethereal_? Good _goddamn_ was he good.

There was also the question of the wire. You wanted to, for whatever reason, to trust him when he said that he knew nothing about it, but you knew in your heart that your mother would punch you in the throat for taking his word for it, and then punch you in the chest for handing him the tech in a fit of rage and frustration before trying to track where it came from. It was stupid, you acknowledge that. But what could you do now? If Carmine had designs on you, even having that information wouldn't help you, if he really wanted to do something terrible. And you were still a Wayne; still an Elliot. As close to royalty in this city as a person could get. Hurting you would be bad for business.

So, despite what your gut instinct tells you, you trust him.

And so it went, for weeks. Zsasz would show up at the cafe, unannounced, maybe in the middle of one of your shifts, maybe just before or just after, and you’d leave him a box of tea on his table and sit in the corner with the sunlight and study, textbooks and pages splayed out. Eventually you start slipping your schedule to him and he’s there when you are, even when there’s no possible way he’s out of tea. Sometimes you join him at his favorite table. The sunlight isn’t as bright, but it’s worth it, to look up and see his face tic as he reads, to listen to his mug gently touch the top of the wooden table as he drinks.

Sometimes you’ll look up and he’s unabashedly staring at you, watching your face as you study or just read, his expression neutral, but with this just slightly undetectable glint in his eye. Of enjoyment, perhaps. Interest, definitely.

You like it.

You don’t tell Madison.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did not mean for this update to take as long as it did, but I started to doubt myself and then my life exploded into nonsense so here we are, a full two weeks later than I wanted it to be. But here's the update! I hope y'all liked it! There's a narrative rumbling to life soon!


	4. Ship To Wreck

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He’s close to you, close enough that you can feel his breath on your lips, and you can see the flecks of hazel in his deep brown eyes. He holds, his eyes fixed on yours, his tongue darting out to lick his lips. Close enough for yours to almost touch, for your noses to brush together. Close enough to kiss, but not quite.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Title: "Ship to Wreck" by Florence + The Machine

You were having such a good day. You had a real breakfast before your first winter TA course of the day, you got the good window in the library, and your last programming 101 course was perfect; all of your students were engaged and excited, and you only had to be snarky with the philosophy major once.

You’re packing up to head back to your room when your phone rings. It’s Madison.

“Hey,” you say brightly as you swing your bag onto your shoulder. “Sorry I’m late to meet you for dinner I just had a student ask about the—”

“Zsasz is here.” You freeze. 

“ _What_? Why?”

“I dunno?”

“What does he want?”

“I don’t know. He hasn’t said much. Probably owing to the fact that he’s bleeding all over our floor.”

“What?!” Your heart immediately starts hammering in your chest. You don’t even remember hanging up; you’re running across the campus, arms pumping until you reach the grad dorms. You fly past the elevator, taking the stairs two at a time until you get to the third floor landing. Your lungs are burning, your heart is in your throat. Madison is standing outside the room, the door slightly ajar. You go straight to her.

“Are you okay?” She nods. “Where is he?” She looks at the door. You push it open.

“Oh shit.” Zsasz is leaning against your bed, his legs splayed out in front of him. He’s holding one of Madison’s scarves to his stomach, dark spots seeping into the deep purple of his button up shirt. You fall to your knees in front of him and touch the hand holding the scarf in place. He looks up at you, smiles weakly.

“Hey angel,” he murmurs; he’s a bit pale, bruising on his face, dried blood on the scar above his eyebrow. You touch his chin. “Sorry to stop by like this.”

“How long has he been here?” You say, turning to look at Madison. She clears her throat.

“I got home like 5 minutes ago and found him lying in front of the door. I have no idea how he got in. I tried to get him to go to the hospital but he refused. It was just about the only thing that got a reaction out of him. I called you when I managed to stop the wound in his stomach from bleeding.” You nod, then cup his face in your hands and raise his head to look at you.

“Zsasz?” He smiles a little as he looks at you.

“You’re so pretty, Wayne,” he murmurs, reaching with his free hand to tap your face. “I’ve mentioned that, right? I know I’ve thought it more than a few times.” You grasp at it, then tip up his chin.

“How did this happen?”

“Bad hit. I didn’t get enough intel. Got ambushed. You can fill in the blanks from there.”

“Why are you here?” He lets out a weak chuckle.

“I was in the neighborhood, decided to bleed out on your floor,” he says. He starts to slouch forward. You shake him a little.

“Hey,” you say, “focus, alright? Madi, get all of my towels and spread them out on my bed. Double layer.” She disappears into the bathroom. You unbutton his shirt and pull his left arm out of the sleeve, then sling it around your neck. She returns and spreads them out on your bed. “Grab some Gatorade out of the fridge and the first aid kit from the bathroom. And the green pouch sitting next to it.” He’s more alert now, squeezing your shoulder as you lift him. You gently lower him onto the edge and help him lay back, apologizing softly as he winces from the pain. When he’s settled onto his uninjured side, his head propped up by your pillows, you take the scarf and pull the shirt free from his trousers and completely off. His torso is bloody, the primary source of it coming from the bullet hole near his hip. You tsk as you pull him forward to inspect his back.

“You’re lucky that this punched through or I’d be out of my depth,” you say. Madison hands you the first aid kit and you crack it open, pulling on a pair of plastic gloves. “Open that up for him, he’ll need to keep replacing his fluids.” Zsasz drinks a third of the bottle that Madison offers him in one go as you open the green pouch and start preparing a suture. Madison’s jaw drops.

“How did…why do we have that?”

“For emergencies,” you say, gesturing to Zsasz. Madison takes a deep breath, and steps away, leaning against her desk.

“Were you followed here?” you ask. He shakes his head.

“I can duck a tail with both hands tied behind my back, Wayne,” he says.

“That’s cocky, coming from a man with a bullet hole in his side. Madi,” she looks at you. “I need three unsharpened pencils.” She spins toward her desk and grabs some, then turns back to the two of you.

“Put them between his teeth,” you say. She does. Zsasz’s hands clamp down on the edge of your bed and the pillows. You press your hand against the skin above his wound. “Deep breath, Vic,” you say.

He bites through two of the three pencils before you’re done. He doesn’t make a sound aside from the odd grunt. Madison looks nauseous. You don’t blame her. When you’re done, having flipped him over to get at the exit wound on his side, and dressed it, Zsasz is still pale and exhausted looking, but alive. You take your gloves off and wipe the sweat from your brow.

“Thanks, doc,” he jokes; he’s on his second Gatorade. You nod. Then he looks over at Madison. “You too. Sorry for scaring you.” She nods. He tries to rise.

“Woah,” you say, pressing him back into the bed. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

“Leaving,” he says. “Just because I know I’m not being tailed doesn’t mean I’m not gonna be careful.”

“Where are you going to go? Do you even have a safehouse?” Zsasz sighs.

“Why do you care, Wayne?”

“Because you showed up on my doorstep nearly on the threshold of death, and I’ll be good and bloody goddamned before I let all the work I just did go to waste.” You sigh. Then pick up your bag. “Did you drive here?”

“What are you doing?”

“Answer the question.”

“I stole a car.” Madison stares at him.

“Of course you did,” you reply. You grab his arm and sling it over your shoulder, then gently pull him to his feet.

“Wayne—”

“Hush,” you say. You turn to look at Madison. “Go stay with Sidney. I’ll be back tomorrow morning. I’ll text to let you know I’m fine.”

“Wait,” Madison says, grabbing your shoulder. “What the fuck are you doing?”

“Going to the best safehouse I know, obviously.”

 

“I’m not gonna lie to you, I was expecting Wayne Manor,” Zsasz says. He’s lying on his side, on the low, squishy grey couch, his head settled on the armrest, staring up at the skylight in your parents’ old living room. You walk in from the kitchen, carrying a bag of Chinese takeout and plates, and sit on the cushion furthest to the left, in between his couch and the wide, heavy coffee table, next to the corner that the loveseat and couch form. “I’m not hungry.”

“I know, this is all for me,” you reply sarcastically, unpacking the bag.

“A woman with a robust appetite. Swoon,” he replies; you look back at him over your left shoulder so he can see the unamused look on your face and he smiles, laughing a little as you roll your eyes and toss your hair over your shoulder. “Mm,” he murmurs. He leans forward as far as he can and takes a deep inhale of your hair. “You always smell really nice.” You look back at him again, and your breath catches in your throat. He’s close to you, close enough that you can feel his breath on your lips, and you can see the flecks of hazel in his deep brown eyes. He holds, his eyes fixed on yours, his tongue darting out to lick his lips. Close enough for yours to almost touch, for your noses to brush together. Close enough to kiss, but not quite. Zsasz smiles, slowly, you can feel it, he’s so close.

“You look like you want something, sweetness,” he murmurs. A smile tugs at your lips before you can stifle it.

“I could say the same, Victor,” you reply, taking on a decidedly flirtatious tone.

“Hm. I like it when you call me Victor,” he says. Fuck, the way he says it makes you like it too, probably more than you should. You briefly and explicitly wonder what it would be like to yell his name before you orgasm. “You do this little sigh at the end,” his nose skims against yours and you shiver, your breath catching in your throat. “It sounds like the first exhale after a kiss.”

“How poetic, you should write,” you reply.

“Flatterer,” he replies. Then, “I want to kiss you,” he murmurs, suddenly. “Can I?”

Oh.

Fuck.

It takes every sensible impulse in you to not throw yourself at him, for practical and emotional reasons. You said you weren’t going to get involved with him and you meant it. And frankly, he can’t handle you right now. Now maybe after he heals up…

“No,” you reply, shoving the thought away. “Not a good idea.” Victor nods, and he leans away from you. You let out a soft exhale, then smile, softly.

“Comfy?” Zsasz huffs.

“Well, I thought that I’d be naked on my couch, reading _Brothers Karamazov_ and eating dinner by now, so relatively speaking, I’m not.”

You grimace.

“You lie naked on your couch?”

“It’s _my_ couch. Why wouldn’t I?”

“Do you at least put a blanket down or something?”

“No,” Zsasz says, staring at you, his face earnest. “I just sit my bare, sweaty ass on my very expensive couch without even a seat cover to protect it.”

Your eyes narrow. “I can’t tell if you’re joking or not.”

“I’m joking,” he says, his face unchanged.

“You’re exhausting,” you sigh.

“Likewise, angel,” he replies, winking at you. You turn back to your plate for a moment, dumping soy sauce onto your rice.

“So uh…” you begin. “What happened exactly?” Zsasz tries to sit up, then winces.

“I hit a guy, his bodyguards clipped me,” he replies, lying back against the couch. “He had six of them instead of two like my intel said.”

“Is there anyone looking for you?”

“No. My crew is tidying up. It should be fine in the morning.” Something clicks for you.

“Huh.”

“What?”

“Nothing, just…sounds like you went on that hit alone. That would be a pretty stupid thing to do.” Zsasz narrows his eyes at you.

“Do I look stupid to you, angel?”

“You’re lying on the couch of a woman you barely know with a bullet hole in your stomach. I’m not calling _you_ stupid, I’m just saying that the _decisions_ that led you here were stupid.”

“Cleverly phrased,” he says, sighing. Then he nods to the bag on the table. “Do you have lo mein in there?”

“Yeah.” You unpack the bag and set up the table, then help Victor sit up and rest against the cushions.

“Who’s Sidney?” You pause, turn to look at him. “Just curious.”

“Her girlfriend. She lives in downtown Gotham. Hedge funder. Good security.” He hums.

“Why didn’t she just borrow the tuition money from her?”

“They weren’t dating at the time.” He hums again. “And come on, would you go to your brand spanking new girl and say ‘hiya love, fancy loaning me three month’s rent plus interest so I don’t get done by a crime lord?’. I wouldn’t.”

“Fair. But you wouldn’t have to do that to begin with, and that’s not a problem I’d have.”

“So,” you begin, after you hand him his food and tuck into yours. “You came to me.”

If he’s suddenly nervous, it doesn’t show. “All of the competent black market surgeons were further across town. If I tried to make it to one of them I probably would’ve died from blood loss.”

“How’d you know I was—”

“Anyone worth the money they’d get paid to shoot someone would know how to stitch up a bullet wound. Whoever taught you clearly knows their shit.”

“Flatterer,” you reply. You dig into an egg roll before he clears his throat. “What?”

“I was wondering…”

“Go on,” you reply. “Have it out, mate.”

“You’re rich,” he says. “You don’t need to be…the way you are.”

“You say the sweetest things,” you reply, deadpan. The corner of his mouth quirks up, a bit. You hope he just leaves it there. Of course, he doesn’t.

“You know what I mean. Who taught you?”

“Who taught _you_?” You shoot back with more venom than you intended. Victor hesitates for a soft moment.

“My dad was big on hunting. I learned a lot from him. I found out somewhere down the line that I was better at killing people.” Goddamnit. He’s not even looking at you now, as if there’s no expectation of sharing. But you know there is; why would he even bother to respond to that?

Was he even being honest? Did it matter?

Hell, why not? What could he possibly do with information like that anyway?

“Do you remember the Spirit of the Goat, a few years ago?” You reply. He nods. “My mum panicked.” You can feel Zsasz looking at you. “Dude, the fact that I gave you that much is a miracle. Don’t push your luck.”

“For what it’s worth,” he says after a long, food filled moment, “Mr. Falcone respected your mother a lot.”

“A lot of people did,” you reply, soft and quiet.

“What was she like?” An anxious knot forms in your chest. You meet Zsasz’s gaze.

“Complicated.” Zsasz has this look in his eyes like he wants to comfort you, but instead he falls silent. You clear your throat, then pick a bottle of water from the table and hand it to him, then pluck two pills off the table where you put them earlier. “You need to stay hydrated. Take these too. They’ll help with the pain.”

Zsasz accepts the water and painkillers without complaint, and drinks, all the while watching you. He’s waiting for you; it’s entirely on you whether you want to share or not.

“She was clever,” you say; it almost bursts out of you. “Mad and clever and wonderful. Funny. Scary. And cold. I mostly remember the cold.” Victor watches you for a moment, then tucks back into his plate.

“I think your old lady and my old man should get together and go bowling,” he murmurs, and you snort.

“My God,” you say suddenly; you turn to look up at him. “Are we gonna be like our parents?” Victor arches a bare brow and you smile in response.

“It’s unavoidable, it just happens,” he says. You sigh.

“Fuck it, being like my mum would be a gift.” Zsasz hums again. You both fall silent again.

“So,” you say, a thought blossoming; you cover your smile as you look at him. “You think I’m pretty.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he shoots back.

“You’ve…thought it more than a few times…” you continue on, as if he hadn’t said anything.

“You’re objectively an attractive woman, Wayne,” he says. He won’t meet your eyes, instead concentrating on the container in front of him.

“But you, specifically, think I’m pretty,” you needle, not bothering to hide the amusement in your voice.

“I should probably sleep,” he replies. “Not right now. Eventually. I was a little delirious when I said that.”

“So you admit you said it,” you reply, nonchalantly. Zsasz smiles, a little.

“I lost a lot of blood. I was in shock. Confused.”

“Uh huh.” You pluck the remote off the coffee table next to you and hand it to him. He takes it, turning the tv on and flicking through channels until he settles on an old black and white movie. You don’t want to make him feel self conscious anymore, but you can’t help it. You turn a little, so he can see your profile and you smile a little at him.

“I think I’m pretty too,” you say; Zsasz lets out a sharp, unexpectedly mirthful laugh at that.

After that, the night is mostly uneventful. You eventually move to the loveseat. You both fall asleep on separate couches, TCM playing softly behind you. You wake up, around 1 am, yawning, Vivien Leigh emoting at the dark room. You shut the tv off and look over at Zsasz, passed out on the couch, his arms curled around him. You watch him for a moment, then rise, pull the afghan off the back of the couch and throw it over him. You reach for your backpack and pull out a book, yawning as you turn on the light sitting next to you and crack the book open. You settle back into the couch, snuggling under your own blanket.

Zsasz’s phone buzzes on the side table next to your head. You reach behind you and pick it up, then hit answer.

“Victor Zsasz’s phone,” you say, returning to your book.

“Who are you?” A feminine voice makes you sit up.

“That depends. Are you a member of his crew?” The feminine voiced person lets out a soft laugh. So yes to that.

“Where is he?”

“He’s asleep right now. Would you like me to wake him up?”

“Please do. You sound cute enough to be in his confidence, but I don’t know you.”

“Fair enough,” you reply. You rise from the loveseat and turn to look at Zsasz. One of his hands is under his pillow, his expression relaxed. You take a step away from him, then give him a sharp nudge, pulling away just as his left whips out from under his pillow, a whisper thin switchblade in his hand. His eyes open.

“What?” He yawns. You hand him the phone.

“There’s a call for you, dear,” you say sweetly, holding out his phone. Victor stares at you, and takes it.

“Zsasz,” he says, gruffly, curling up underneath the afghan. “What is it, Iris?” He looks up at you for a second; you slink back over to the loveseat and drop into it, tossing the blanket back over your legs and returning to your book.

“I’m fine,” he says, “I’m with Wayne. We’re—”

“West 161st and Vinland Street, across from the park,” you finish. Zsasz repeats the information.

“Bring two quarts. See you tomorrow,” he hangs up and drops the phone on the coffee table. You look over the edge of your book at him. “She and someone else are coming for me in the morning.”

You nod, humming tunelessly as you return to your book.

“You have blood coming? Because you definitely need some.”

“Yeah. Iris is a universal donor.”

“Lucky you,” you reply.

“You answered my phone,” he says, simply.

“I did. I figured it would be important. And I was right.” He stares at you. Then hums again.

“Vinland Street? Pretty fancy,” he murmurs, a cheery glitter in his eye appearing at the slight downturn of your mouth.

“It’s an ancestral home,” you protest, smiling a little yourself. You turn a page, the letters blurring before your eyes. “They moved out pretty quick.”

“The Goat really freaked them out, didn’t it?” 

“Yeah, but they were out way before then, before I was even born. My mum was never comfortable with how rich my fraternal side was.” He nods. You spare a look at him. There’s a question that’s been nagging at you for a while, but you only feel comfortable asking now, when you’re in this loose, familiar place with him.

“Are you from Gotham, Zsasz?” He turns his head to look at you, then smiles.

“Are _you_?” He says, his eyes bright and playful. You roll your eyes. What the hell. It’s not like he can’t find this stuff out from the right history book.

“Kind of,” you reply.“I was born in Gotham, raised mostly in the U.K. My parents moved back officially when I was 11, after Thomas and Martha got married, which is why I sound like an American actor had a fight with a Manchester accent and lost.” Zsasz lets out a laugh at that. You can’t deny, you get a tiny little thrill out of making him laugh.

“Why’d they move back?” You smile.

“You first.” The corner of Zsasz’s mouth quirks up, a bit.

“I’m from Chicago,” Zsasz replies. “I got sent to boarding school in Gotham when I was 16. I liked it enough to stay. And my parents didn’t care enough to make me come back anyway.” Your eyebrows shoot up.

“Can’t even hear your accent,” you reply. Zsasz’s head cocks.

“Was that a…?”

“Commentary,” you say. Zsasz shifts in his spot, winces a little as he moves.

“Yours is…interesting.” You smile.

“That’s a polite way of saying ridiculous,” you laugh, languidly turning a page.

“Not ridiculous. Interesting. Sonically complex.”

“Sonically complex,” you repeat, grinning. “Was that a…?”

“Compliment. I like listening to your voice.” You feel your face get hot, and you look away, idly flicking through pages.

“Where were you in seventh grade when I started assimilating and mangled my shit for good?” You chuckle softly. Zsasz shakes his head.

“Don’t feel bad about it,” he murmurs. Your voice is cute.” You don’t know what to say to that, but it makes you feel warm.

“Thanks,” you reply. He nods.

“So?”

“So?”

Zsasz’s brow cocks. “Don’t play coy, angel.” You sigh dramatically. Fine.

“My dad missed his city. My mum and Alf…her friend left the Special Air Service after her last year of duty. She didn’t want to stay in England anyway, and she had friends here, from when she went to uni, so,” you make a grand gesture to the apartment, as if to say ‘ta da!’ Victor nods.

“Your parents still alive?” You query. Victor shakes his head.

“They died when I was 19. Boating accident.”

“I’m sorry,” you reply. Zsasz shrugs.

“I’m sorry about yours. How they went was just…” You go quiet at that. Still. There’s a burn behind your eyes. Your hands start to shake, a little. You can’t meet his eyes.

“Yeah…uh…it was…”

“I’m sorry,” you look up to meet his eyes. “I shouldn’t have mentioned it.”

“What boarding school?” You stumble over the question in your haste to change the subject. Zsasz looks taken aback for a minute, but recovers almost immediately. He even smirks a little.

“Saint Lancaster,” he replies. What?!

Your eyebrows shoot into your hairline. “Jesus Christ, Saint fucking _Lancaster_? The Catholic prep?” He nods. “You don’t seem the type.”

“I don’t seem it because I fucking hated it. It’s not anything I like to dwell on.” You want to ask; Lancaster is for pious rich people, and it seems like the ultimate in left field that a guy from a rich religious family would become a hitman, but it certainly explains a lot for you. Like why Carmine calls on him to be a bodyguard at high society galas. Why not use someone who can do high society airs in his sleep? Or even why Carmine, ironically the most pious Catholic you ever met, would hire Victor. Skill matters, but the religiosity is probably what put him over the edge.

“Well that certainly explains why you’ve been kicking around Gotham all this time and I didn’t know who you were until like a year ago.”

“Because of course you know everyone worth knowing in Gotham,” Zsasz replies.

“No,” you sigh. “I just mean that we’re in the same age range and we’ve never really met or talked before now.”

“Are you surprised? I’m a fucking hitman and you’re a socialite with an extensive knowledge of guns. The only crossover we would have is seeing each other when we’re going to buy bullets wholesale.”

“Well, when you put it that way,” you reply, letting out a sharp yawn. Zsasz almost immediately lets out a yawn after you.

“I think we should both go back to sleep, angel,” he murmurs. You nod, sitting your book on the table next to his phone. You turn the light off. and curl under a blanket on the recliner.

“Agreed.”

The sky outside the skylight is inky black, dark; you can almost see the stars through the light pollution. When you were a kid, your father used to take you to the roof and have you trace the constellations until you fell asleep. You’re halfway through Ursa Major before Zsasz speaks again.

“I did go on that hit alone.” You turn to look at him through the darkness.

“Why?” He’s quiet. “Zsasz?” Nothing. “Victor?”

“Don Falcone is…I’m not the only hitman on his payroll. I wanted to prove that I could be.” You stare up and count the stars in Orion as you process the information.

“If that hit had gone any further left field, you would be in a coffin instead of on my couch, you know.”

“I know,” he sighs. “But I’m not.” Something wiggles out of the recesses of your memory. The words come to you before you have a chance to process them.

“‘Arrogance is the killer’s greatest killer’,” you murmur.

“What?”

“Nothing, it’s…it’s just something my mum used to say all the time. Believing you’re invincible is the fastest way to the morgue. Believing you’re out of harm’s way is the second fastest. She had a whole list of them. The point was…the moment you start to think you’re hot shit is the moment the universe shows you otherwise.”

“Insightful.”

“No need to be a dick,” you sigh. “I’m just trying to help.”

“I meant that. It was helpful.”

“Oh.”

“Why are you trying to help me?”

“I dunno, dude. Why did you tell me all of that?”

“I dunno. I guess I don’t think you’re entirely unlikeable.”

“Thanks?”

“No problem.” You turn to look at him. He might be smiling, in the gloom.

“Night, Zsasz.” Zsasz scoots down and slowly turns himself over.

“Goodnight, Wayne. Thank you, again.” You nod and curl back into your seat, counting the stars until your eyelids droop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know. It's been nearly 2 months. Life happened. And then anxiety happened. But I really wanted to get to giving y'all the fun part of this story (which is at 104 pages in my docs at the moment), so I have to publish. Things are about to pop off, fam!
> 
> Thank you for the kudos and the absolutely wonderful comments! They genuinely keep me going. Y'all are the best!


	5. She's My Collar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You meet some new people. Madison unlocks your tragic backstory.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Title: "She's My Collar" by Gorillaz feat. Kali Uchis

“Sweetness,” Victor groans; he thinks you can probably hear the smirk in his voice, but you’re clearly too far gone to care. He wraps his fingers around your thighs and he feels a shiver rattle across you, his breath fanning out across your skin. “Lift your hips a little.” You look down at him and his eyes meet yours; he can only imagine what you see; your beautiful, soft, brown, expansive thighs framing his face, his eyes, glazed over with desire, flickering from yours to your pubic mound.

He watches as you grip the headboard and pull yourself higher, your forearms tense, shaking from the effort to keep yourself up. He settles lower in response, his mouth directly below your lips, and his tongue darts out, paints a broad stripe across you. Your thighs quiver; you groan gently, deliciously low, worrying your pillowy bottom lip with your teeth. His fingers grip tighter as he feels you wind your hips, and he sighs, raggedly, contentedly.

“ _Perfect_ ,” he exhales; he juts his head up, spreads your knees wider, reaches higher, his fingers tight on your waist, thumbs nestled just underneath your breasts. You’re so… _soft_ , he thinks, beneath the haze of your scent and the taste of you on him. Warm, wet, sweet. Just as sweet as he imagined.

He dips his tongue, slowly, back into you, then swirls it, softly and lovingly around your clit.

“ _Holy fuck_.” He grins; he’s watching you, intently, watching your chest heave, feeling your legs shake, your halting breaths, your eyes fluttering closed, whimpering so melodiously.

“Victor,” you sigh. “ _Please._ ” You’re dripping, all over his chin; it makes him hot, makes his pulse thrum underneath his skin, makes a sharp-pleasure pain wave jolt ride up and down his spine, straight to his dick. You’re so fucking _close_ , he feels you flutter around him, waves building slowly, quietly, until you’re ramrod straight, your body trembling, crying out as his tongue reverently strokes your clit, down and over and into your slick, _delicious_ fucking core.

You’re taut, tight, around his tongue; he thinks he can probably get another orgasm out of you, but you’re spent, exhausted. He just has to push, just a little harder, or maybe, _fuck_ , just _maybe_ , get you around his cock so he 

“Zsasz?” You murmur.

He jolts awake, his eyes wide and a little wild when they find you. You smile. _Fuck_. “Hey.”

He tries to sit up, but winces, hissing as he collapses back. “Easy. You were shot, remember?”

“I’m aware,” he grits his teeth as he grips the back of the couch and pulls himself up; you catch his forearm to take on some of his weight as he swings his legs off the couch. He pulls away from you.

“What time is it?” You nod over to the mantelpiece clock.

“8 am. Iris called. She said she’d be here in 45 minutes. Easy, now!” Victor ignores you, pulling himself to his feet. He holds his side and moves, shaky, but purposeful, toward the hall. You’re on him in a second, trying to keep him from stumbling. “Be careful, you’re gonna rip your stit—” Victor turns to look at you and the look in his eyes makes you pause. Not cold, or scary, but…something else.

“Bathroom?” You blink.

“Right here,” you try to get his arm over your shoulder but he pulls away.

“I’m fine, Wayne.”

“No you’re not,” you scoff. Victor gently pulls away from you.

“I’m fine.” Your eyes lock for a long moment, and you nod.

“Okay.” You point to the bathroom. “Toothbrush and a new shirt on the counter.”

He nods.

After he locks the door, after he brushes his teeth, after he strips naked, turns the water on, and steps in, he starts to think about you, how your hair smelled, how you looked sitting in the sunlight the first time he saw you in the bookstore; he thinks about you touching yourself, wonders how you would feel around him, what kinds of sounds you would make.

And he wraps his hand around his length, and starts to jerk himself off.

 

Once Zsasz left the bathroom, freshly washed, dressed in one of your father’s old button-ups, and a little less sleepy looking, you help him redress his wound and give him a morning round of antibiotics.

“How’d you sleep?” Zsasz has the barest hint of a pause before picking up the mug of black tea you made.

“Well enough. You?” You wiggle your hand as you sip from your own mug.

“I had a fever dream about one of my finals, but that’s par for the course.” He nods. Comfortable silence falls between the two of you. Your eyes flit over the kitchen skylight; one of the few reasons you’re sad you didn’t get to live here as a kid is the fact that there’s some form of skylight in every room. The sun pouring in in the mornings is the world’s best alarm clock. You lean into the sunbeam streaming across the counter and smile, softly, your eyes opening.

Zsasz is staring at you. Over his mug. The steam rising, making his eyes shimmer. Your eyes lock. Then they flit over you, quickly, before they cut away from you. You tilt your head.

“How’re you feeling?” Zsasz looks up at you again. You gesture at your hip. He shrugs.

“A bullet wound’s a bullet wound, no matter how you toss it.”

“Ooooh, what a badass,” you reply, grinning. Victor’s eyebrow cocks.

“You ever been shot, angel?”

You shake your head. “I’m assuming that being hit with rubber bullets don’t count.”

“Why was someone shooting at you with rubber bullets?” You shrug as you put your mug in the sink and begin to rinse it out.

“Because my mom wanted to shoot me with real bullets but my father drew the line there,” you say, forcing nonchalance into your voice. Zsasz’s brow cocks.

“Complicated,” he murmurs; he drains his mug, then delicately sits it on the table. You put your mug on the sideboard, then grab his and rinse it out too.

“How’s your head?” You ask.

“I don’t get complaints.” You pause, then look over your shoulder at him. He’s staring out of the window next to the table, but there’s a tiny little upturn of his mouth. Your heart starts to race, just a little.

“You might pass out from blood loss and you’re making jokes about fellatio.”

“Cunnilingus, actually. I’m not as confident with fellatio.”

“Zsasz.” His eyes meet yours, and after a minute of you staring him down and tapping your foot, lips pursed, he sighs.

“I’m a little dizzy, angel.” You walk back over to him, helping him to his feet.

“Come on, you should lie down. Wait for Iris to show up.” You guide him into the living room and get him settled on the couch, then sit on the recliner. Zsasz rolls his sleeves up to his elbows, crosses his arms, and shuts his eyes.

You don’t want to, but you can’t help but stare at him. There’s something (or some things) deeply compelling about him.Your gaze trails, from his closed eyes, to his nose, down across his chest, to his exposed forearms. A cluster of scars catch your eye. Your head tilts as you try to make them out, then try to count them. One looks fresh.

“You should know as well as anyone that it’s rude to stare, angel.” Your eyes meet his, then flicker back down to his arms.

“I never noticed those before. What are they?” He settles deeper into the cushions.

“They’re a tally.”

“Of?” Zsasz turns his head fully to meet your gaze.

“I think you know.” You let out a long, slow breath.

“Yeah,” you reply. “I do.” Zsasz nods, then turns his head back and closes his eyes.

“Which was your first?” Zsasz sighs.

“Do you genuinely want the answer to that, angel?”

“Why would I ask if I didn’t want to know?”

“Because you’re chronically nosy.”

“Zsasz.” He looks at you out of the corner of his eye, then sighs, louder. He holds out his left arm and points to a jagged scar, set closer to his elbow.

“Michael Fiorello,” he murmurs. Your eyes go wide.

“The fuckin’…Ausiello lieutenant? From Metropolis?” He nods. “What the fuck, that was…like…four years ago, how old were—”

“22,” he replies.

“Wow.” You’re genuinely surprised. The Ausiello family is the biggest, baddest crime family this side of Falcone and Maroni, and probably the only reason the three have never gone to war is because Ausiello seems content to keep his business contained to Metropolis. As much as you like Carmine, you’re not entirely sure the Falcone organization, even with unlikely back up from Maroni, could handle a war with the Ausiellos.

It’s even more impressive to you, then, that Zsasz managed to kill Michael Fiorello. Fiorello was in his forties when he died, but he was still one of the Ausiellos’ most badass enforcers. Even your mother used to speak about him with a fair degree of begrudging respect. “Hit or accident?”

“Neither. It was an…occupational hazard.”

“Why’d you do it?”

Zsasz huffs. “Falcone hired me as a bodyguard for his son—

“Mario?” Zsasz nods.

“—who is insufferable, though I’m sure you know that already. And he decided to be insufferable in close proximity to Fiorello. Fiorello decided to put Mario in harm’s way, so I decided to put him in the ground. Falcone was impressed. So much so, he contracted me to kill the Gotham police officer who was in Fiorello’s pocket and I realized I liked it too much for it to be an accident.”

“Why’d you start the tally thing?” Zsasz hesitates, for a couple moments, then shrugs.

“It felt good. I just wanted something to remind me of what it felt like.”

“Okay,” you exhale. Zsasz opens one eye, and looks at you.

“Does that scare you?” You meet his gaze again, then let your eyes dart down, to that fresh tally. Then you give him the honest answer.

“It should. But it doesn’t.” Zsasz’s eyes linger on you. “How many?”

“Do you really want to know?” You’re not sure. But Zsasz has this glint in his eye, terrifying and sharp, like he wants to tell you. But just as you open your mouth to respond, his phone buzzes. You scoop it off the coffee table and hand it to him.

“Hey. Okay.” He hangs up. “She’s outside. Raincheck.”

You ring up two very pretty women in an alarming amount of black goth bondage gear two minutes later and open the front door just as they get off the elevator. One of them, a girl with one shaved eyebrow, nods.

“Cute voice girl.” You smile.

“I’m—”

“I know who you are. I’m Iris. This is Cameron,” she gestures to the other girl, tall and black with short cropped hair and a short blue mohawk. You gesture for them to enter. Cameron whistles as she walks into the living room and lays eyes on Victor.

“You look way less shitty than I expected,” she says. “Cute voice girl is pretty good.”

“Thanks?” You say. Cameron beams at you.

“Of course.” She holds up a black duffel. “So we doing this or we doing this?” You move to clear space on the coffee table.

“Right, yeah, let me just—”

“No.” Zsasz swings his legs off the couch and tries to rise. Iris catches his elbow to steady him. “I’ve inconvenienced you enough. We can do this on the move.”

“Vic, it’ll be harder to—” He shoots a look at Iris and she falls silent, then nods. Cameron moves forward and pulls his arm over her shoulder. They help him out of the apartment, and down the hall, with you trailing behind, your bag over your shoulder, locking your parents’ apartment behind you.

The elevator ride down is awkward, Zsasz, not looking at you, held up between the two of them. Iris reaches forward and nudges you.

He probably hasn’t mentioned it because he’s grumpy when he’s hurt, but thank you.”

“I don’t need you to issue my thank yous, Iris,” he says gruffly. She rolls her eyes.

“See what I mean? Grumpy.”

“Taciturn,” Cameron says.

“Peevish,” Iris volleys back.

“Tetchy.”

“Churlish.”

“Irascible.”

“Cantank—”

“You’ve both made your point,” he snaps. You stifle your giggle. “As she is well aware, I’ve already said thank you. But again. Thanks, angel.”

“Of course,” you reply. Then you look at Iris. “He was downright pleasant, you’d be pleased to know.” Iris’s brows shoot up, and she looks at the other girl.

“ _Him_? Shot and _pleasant_? You must be magic or some shit, right Cameron?”

“I’m standing, right here,” he snaps again. You giggle out loud this time, just as the elevator doors open. The lobby is deserted, which is what you legislated for. Most of the folks in the building are still in St. Tropez for the winter, and you called around 9 pm last night to tell the concierge to take the day off starting immediately.

They escort him to a big black truck and usher him in. Before he shuts the door behind himself, Zsasz looks back at you, silent for a long moment.

“Thank you, angel. Really. You saved my life.”

You nod. “Of course. Rest up.”

 

Getting back to the university is a bit of a slog, due to you realizing on the train ride back how bone deep exhausted you are. You trudge down the hall toward your apartment dorm, yawning as you go. When you put your key in the door, the knob rattles and flies open. Madison stands in the threshold expectant and glaring.

“What the fuck, Margo?” You step past her and she slams the door behind you. “Why was Victor fucking Zsasz here?” You sigh, deeply, as you drop your bag next to your desk and slouch onto your bed, throwing off your jacket and shoes as you go.

“I remember telling you to go to Sidney’s.”

“I did. You didn’t answer my goddamn question.” Her Ghanaian accent is bursting around her Midwestern, so she has to be truly upset. You clear your throat and turn your head slightly to get her in your eyeline.

“He knew I would be able to take care of that bullet wound,” you reply, muffled by the comforter. Madison’s eyes go a little wide, as if she can’t process what you’re saying. Then she closes them. Then opens. Covers her mouth.

“Okay, fuck,” Madison sits on the edge of your desk and stares at you. “First off, remember that conversation we’re supposed to have? We need to have it. Right now.” You turn over, fully.

“Are you sure?”

Madison huffs. “Uh, yeah.” You sit up, and lie back on your pillows. Take a deep breath.

“Alright,” you say. “Shoot.” Madison lets out a long slow breath.

“First question. Most important. Where did you go last night?”

“My parents’ old apartment. I’ve never really had the place listed as an official residence because they moved out before I was born, so it works pretty well as a safehouse in a pinch.”

“Why do you need to have a safehouse?”

“Why does anyone need to have a safehouse?” Madison sucks her teeth in that particular way that only black immigrants and the children of black immigrants can do, which conveys every single form of “this bitch…” that can be said without words.

“Don’t be evasive, o. Please just answer the question.”

“It’s only for emergencies. I’ve never had cause to use it before now.”

“Do you regularly do things which require having a safehouse for backup?”

“No,” you sigh. “All of this is a very recent development.” Madison’s bites her bottom lip and looks down, then back up.

“Okay,” she breathes. “I need you to know that I’m on your side, no matter what. You saved my ass, and then saved my ass. I owe you, big time. And even if you hadn’t done that, I like you, a lot. You’re my friend. I’m asking this shit, not for my own benefit, but because I care about you. I just want to know that…I don’t know, you’ll be safe?”

You sigh and gesture to the new window. “I think it’s self-evident that I’ll be safe.”

“I just want answers, Margo. I don’t think that’s crazy to ask for, relatively speaking.” You feel like shit, immediately. She’s right, you know it.

But it’s hard. Talking about anything related to what happened to your parents hurts.

“I’m sorry. Please. Ask me. I’ll answer.”

“Okay.” Madison bites her bottom lip. “When Zsasz first came here, and I asked you about this shit, you said, ‘long story is complicated, short story is—’”

“My mother,” you finish for her, sighing. Madison nods. “Okay.”

You rise to your feet, and begin to pace a little, then sit on the edge of the bed and breathe.

“I don’t even know where to start,” you sigh.

“Start with your mom,” she says.

“Okay. My mother…my mum was…a member of the British Special Air Service. Probably the most dangerous woman in pretty much any room she walked into. You don’t get like that by not being at least a little paranoid.

“So when she and my dad had me, after I was old enough to hold a knife, she started training me. Hardcore. I’ve been able to field strip, clean, and reassemble a firearm blindfolded, break bones, use evasion and escape techniques, since I was 10. My dad hated it. He didn’t like that I wasn’t allowed to be a kid, but my mum wouldn’t listen. And I was learning how to defend myself, so he just let it ride.

“He pretty much hit his limit when I was 16 going on 17. I did something stupid when I was at Gotham Prep, like an offense that would’ve gotten a kid who wasn’t in one of the Gotham first families kicked out, and my dad pretty much put an end to it then. He thought I was…becoming too dangerous, I guess. Too cocky. But when the Spirit of the Goat thing happened, my mum went overboard and then some. She had all of us, my dad included, arming up, learning how to fight, learning how to shoot, all of it. But me, she just…she just _drilled_. It was…intense. I was 19 at the time, so I more or less was old enough to know what my mum did for a living before I was born, so a lot of what happened in my childhood made sense, but…this was scary. I think it was just too close to home for her. She spent years of her life trying to stay alive and keep her cohort alive, and she and I and my dad were supposed to be…well, some semblance of safe in Gotham, being one of the “powerful families,” so the Goat spooked her.

“Training became a point of contention with them. There were a lot of arguments. But I kept it up, because the Goat scared me too. But then…” you trail off, sighing. Madison tilts her head.

“Then what?” You feel a knot form in your throat.Your eyes start to burn again.

“My parents…they…I dunno if you know, it was in the papers when it happened.”

“Car accident,” she murmurs. You nod. Tears leak out of your eyes, despite your best efforts. “They swerved to avoid hitting something and…”

“Hit a concrete guardrail. 20 years running unbelievably dangerous missions, and she dies in a fucking car accident,” you murmur, furiously rubbing your eyes. Madison offers you a box of tissues. You take one, murmur a soft thanks as you wipe your eyes.

“I’m sorry,” Madison says softly.

You nod, but there’s no feeling behind it.

“Well, I mean. This sounds deeply upsetting, but not complicated.” You clear your throat.

“Her former C.O. got wind of it. He was convinced it was some kind of murder attempt, turned it into a fucking circus.”

“Was it? A murder?” You shake your head.

“There was no evidence of foul play. Metropolis P.D. investigated. My parents were tight with a lot of Gotham P.D. so they provided a shitton of technical and financial support. They didn’t find anything. Alfred eventually had to force him to leave.”

“God, fuck…Margo. That sucks.” You’re mute, for a moment, but then it bursts out of you.

“They were probably arguing when it happened.”

“What?” You let out a hard sigh.

“My parents. They had some gala thing, my dad was getting an award. The summer before I started my junior year at Central City University, I was going to go to London. I wanted to…get more training. Real military shit. My dad didn’t want me to. My mum felt like it was my decision to make. We fought over it that night. They were still arguing when they left to go to Metropolis.” The knot in your throat becomes too hard to push past. Madison moves to sit next to you. Takes your hand.

“It wasn’t your fault.”

“Wasn’t it? If I hadn’t been so hardheaded—”

“You didn’t kill your parents. Okay? You didn’t. It wasn’t your fault.”

“I wish I could believe that.” Madison grabs you by the shoulders.

“Look at me.” You do. Madison’s gaze is earnest, kind. “You didn’t kill your parents. Heinous shit happens to good people all of the time.This weight isn’t yours to carry, and if your parents could hear you blaming yourself, they’d probably lose their minds.”

You appreciate the sentiment, even if you’re not wholly committed to what she’s saying. So you smile, a little, and nod. Then slouch away from her and back onto the bed.

“I know you probably have more questions, but I don’t think I can talk about this anymore.” Madison nods.

“I’m sorry. I was invasive.”

“It’s okay. You wanted to know,” you reply, patting her knee. “You deserve to know.” Madison leans back against your headboard and crosses her legs. You both fall silent for a long time, you lost in your thoughts.

“So…” you can hear the mirth in Madison’s voice. “What’s going on with you and Zsasz?” You smile, genuinely, despite yourself. Fucking Madison, the sister you always wished you had.

“Nothing.”

“ _Nothing._ He showed up on our doorstep for _nothing_.”

“No, it was obvious, he showed up because—”

“Girl, dude is a professional _hitman_. What makes you think he couldn’t dig that shit out himself?”

“It’s harder than you’d think, Madi,” you sigh. She shoots a look at you.

“Margo…have you been shot before?” You let out a laugh at the little tremble in her voice.

“Do rubber bullets count?”

“What?!”

“No, to answer your question. But Alfred has. I had to dig a slug out of him once.”

Madison gasps. “Shut the fuck up, Alfred? _Alfred Pennyworth_? _Treacle Tart?_ ” You let out a laugh at her nickname for him and nod. “Oh my God, did you shoot him?! Did you shoot Treacle Tart?!”

“No! It was a hunting accident. Thomas shot him.” 

“ _What?!_ ”

“Yeah. This was around the time Alfred was coming around to helping with my training. My mum suggested that I get the bullet out, and he let me. I made a hash of it. He damn near passed out halfway through. After that he said he wasn’t gonna let my mum teach me how to shoot if I wasn’t gonna learn how to clean up after.”

Madison stares at you. Then lets out a sharp, surprised laugh.

“Jesus, dude. Your family is fuckin’ ridiculous.”

“Understatement,” you reply, chuckling a little.

“But _I’m telling you_ ,” she continues. “Zsasz probably had his pick of back street sawbones and he chose to come to you. He hasn’t seen you in, what, two months? I’m just _saying_ —”

“No, but…okay, here’s what happened. He’s been…visiting me at work.” Madison’s eyebrows shoot up, and she starts to grin, biting her lip in her amusement.

“ _When_ were you going to mention _that_?”

“I wasn’t gonna. Because I knew you’d get that look and I wasn’t trying to deal with that.”

“What look?!”

“That ‘You like Krabby Patties, don’t you, Squidward?’ look. That one. The one you’re _literally_ doing right now.” Madison huffs as she crosses her arms, her face immediately falling out of the look.

“I don’t have a look.”

“Yes, you do. And anyway, there’s no point in using it. I doubt he’s gonna keep coming around. At least for a while.”

“Why do you figure that?” You lay back on your bed.

“He was worried about being tracked by the people of whoever he killed. Meaning that he’s probably gonna play it safe and switch up his routines for a bit.”

“Did he say all of that?”

“No,” you sigh. “But it’s what I would do.”

“Are we in danger?” You shake your head.

“If we were in danger, I would have called you hours ago.”

Madison sighs as she slumps onto your bed next to you. “This is like…Jesus Christ.” You turn over to look at her.

“I’m sorry,” you sigh. “Listen, if you wanna…change rooms, or get another roommate, I understand. This is a lot of shit. I don’t want you to get—”

“Shut up, dude,” she says, sitting up. “I’m not gonna leave you by yourself. Fuck you think this is?”

“Madi, don’t—”

“I _said_ what I _said_ ,” she replies, narrowing her eyes. “You’re stuck with me, you whole ass cornball.” You smile. Madison was, and continues to be the best person you know.

“Besides,” she says, standing up and stretching. “Like you said. He’s probably gonna, I dunno, lay low. It’s cease fire time, I guess. We’ll be fine.” You smile, warmed by her optimism.

“Yeah. Cease fire.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry to fake y'all out at the beginning, but I have...some Things lined up for your reading pleasure soon, so I don't feel Terrible.
> 
> I'm actually sorry about the lag time between chapters, but we're finally at a chunk where I have a lot of stuff written out already, so updates shall be a little more frequent!
> 
> Thank you for the comments and kudos! I don't really know how to respond to them with anything other than "AULGYFUEGFLUEJHGAFUAE THANK U I'M CRYING????????" but please know I mean it when I say I love and appreciate all of your comments and kudos. Y'all the bomb.com! Also every time I read them I do cry. Y'ALL KNOW HOW TO MAKE A GORL FEEL GOODT.
> 
> And yeah! See y'all sooner rather than later!
> 
> Also points to you if you caught The Breakfast Club reference in the last chapter <3


	6. I Follow Rivers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He steps closer to you, your knees almost touching, and he looks down at you.  
> “Are you sure you’re up for this?”  
> You nod. “You don’t wanna know how prepared for this I am.”  
> Zsasz smirks. “I actually do. But that doesn’t answer my original question.”  
> You take a deep breath. “I’m okay,” you exhale. He smiles.  
> “Good. Get off the car.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Title: "I Follow Rivers" by Lykke Li

The cease fire only lasts but for so long.

More specifically, a month. It’s your last shift before the long weekend, and you’re tired. You’re supposed to leave for Wayne Manor when it ends. You’re excited; Thomas and Alfred are coming by to pick you up, Martha’s been keeping you updated on the art projects she’s working on, and you can’t wait to talk to Bruce about Archimedes over pear tart. But you have to get through the last few hours of your shift and the astronomical amount of reshelving you have to do first. You have about thirty minutes before your break when it happens. 

“Wayne,” you turn, your heart racing a little, biting back a smile as your eyes fall on Victor.

“Zsasz, hey. Long time no s—”

“Don Falcone needs to see you. Now.” You freeze.

“Why?”

“He’ll tell you when he sees you, angel.” He reaches forward, picks a fluffball out of your hair before you have time to react. Your heartbeat spikes as you catch a whiff of his cologne and you take a step back.

“Just tell me now, Zsasz.”

“Ah,” he tilts his head. “You know as well as I do that there’s no shop talk allowed in Cara’s. It’s not my job to explain. It’s my job to transport. And Don Falcone is waiting for both of us.” You sigh as you turn to shelve the books in your arms.

“I have work for another _three_ hours and I’m supposed to be going home for the long weekend after,” you say, turning, taking another book off the cart next to you, and putting it back in place. “I’m afraid you’ll have to tell Mr. Falcone that I need a raincheck.” Two customers wander down the aisle, past you both; Zsasz sighs, then moves closer to you, close that you can almost feel his chest pressing against your back. Your heart begins to race, but you’re steady, calm.

“I’m sorry to be ominous, but don’t think you understand how non-negotiable this life and death situation is, Wayne.” Something brushes against the center of your back and you turn, suddenly, planting your hand in the middle of his chest, and pushing him gently away from you.

“I don’t think _you_ understand how serious I am about my personal space,” you reply. Zsasz’s right arm comes up, and a moment later, his fingers are around your wrist. You catch your breath, hyper aware of his closeness, of the unexpected sharp, cold, slightly sweet smell of pine radiating off him.

“I normally wouldn’t be so rude,” he murmurs. His eyes flicker down to your mouth, quick, so fast you’re almost unsure if it even happened. “But time is of the essence.” Your eyes narrow into a slight glare. You square your shoulders and tilt your chin up to meet his eyes.

“Well Zsasz, if we’re gonna be friends,” you raise your right arm, his fingers still wrapped around your wrist, then twist out of his grip. “I’m gonna need you to be less rude. Don’t fucking touch me and stay out of my personal space.” He takes a step away from you.

“Is that what we are? Friends?”

“Well, I wouldn’t dig a slug out of an enemy. A vague and irritating acquaintance maybe…” He smiles softly at that.

“I’m…sorry about grabbing you like that. It was a…badly thought out decision,” he says; his eyes, very noticeably this time, flicker down to your mouth, and, on instinct, you bite your bottom lip. The corner of his mouth quirks up as he stares at you.

“Apology accepted,” you murmur. You want to move, but can’t. You can’t tell if it’s because you’re really nervous or if you’re aroused. He leans a little closer into you, just outside your halo of personal space, then tilts his head, ever so slightly.

“You look like you wanna tell me something, sweetness,” he whispers.

“I could say the same,” you reply. Zsasz hums, softly, his eyes going down to your mouth.

“I want to kiss you again,” he murmurs. “Would you hit me if I did?”

You swallow, your breath thick in your throat. “Right now? Yes.”

“Hm.” The look he gives you makes you shake, a little.

“What?”

“You said ‘right now,’” he murmurs. Then he smiles. Oh _God_. He shouldn’t be this handsome when he smiles.

“So?”

“Almost like if I asked in a different situation, you’d be amicable.”

“Are you really trying to push your luck right now?” you reply. If he doesn’t move away from you, you don’t know what you’re going to do, but you’d rather not confront the part of yourself that wants you to kiss him, maybe…oh.

But _what_ a thought that is…

“Yes, I am.” Oh noooooooooo…

“Move, Zsasz,” you finally reply, your voice shaking. His grin widens, and he steps away. You shiver a bit, slowly letting out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. He grins even wider as he walks backwards down the aisle.

“Don Falcone asked me to escort you,” he says. “I’ll meet you in the cafe in 10.”

 

The next 10 minutes are spent in a soft blur; you find Cara, your boss, standing toward the back of the clearance section, surrounded by book-filled carts.

“Hey Cara,” you tap her on the shoulder. She turns to look at you and smiles.

“Hey,” she returns to stocking a pile of discounted Jane Austen anthologies. “Did you finish moving those new reduced sale books?”

“Yeah. Listen.” You try to fish for an optimal lie, but instead opt for a half truth. “I’m really tired. Like dead on my feet exhausted. Would it be the worst thing in the world if I left early?” Cara shrugs.

“Not at all. We’re moving pretty slow today, you can bump off. Though you know I have to ask, does this exhaustion have anything to do with the Falcone man that’s been sitting in my cafe for the past couple months?” Your blood runs a little cold at that, but you should have known. The reason you even know Cara is because she knew your mum, and the one thing they had in common and bonded over was a “with the shits”ness and an inability to suffer foolishness. You should have known she would clock Zsasz and start asking questions. You opt for a half truth again.

“No. He’s just a friend.”

“Victor Zsasz is a dangerous friend to have, kid.”

“I’m a dangerous kid, friend,” you shoot back, grinning.

Cara rolls her eyes. “Sound just like your damn mama,” she sighs. “She didn’t know her limits either.”

“I know my limits,” you protest. Even as the words escape, you know you’re giving her a half truth, again. You do know your limits, to be fair; you just spend far too much of your time pushing yourself past them. And Cara knows it, too.

“Uh huh,” Cara sighs. “That,” she gestures vaguely to the cafe, “is a limit tester right there. You can leave. Whatever you end up doing, you’re not that well rested. You know your reaction time is affected, so please be careful.”

“Yes m’am,” you nod.

“Is he nice to you?” You nod. “Hasn’t been pushy or cheeky?” A shake of your head. “No business talk?” A shake. “Good. Go. Tell Carmine I said hi if you see him.” You nod, and walk toward the back room.

Youcollect your overnight bag, knapsack, say goodbye to your coworkers, and find Zsasz in the cafe, reading his ever present copy of _The Brothers Karamazov_ , two to-go cups and a bag sitting in front of him.

You’re nervous. Leaving work, _on a lark_ , with a dangerous, mob-affiliated man is a horrible idea. Yet here you are, ready to run off with barely a third try at convincing you, for some vague “you’ve been summoned” reason. You could just turn around, you think, optimistically. Just turn and go out the back. Call Alfred to pick you up early. Go home.

But you won’t.

“Are we leaving or do you want to ruminate on the ethical implications of free will all evening?” You say, slinging your bag over your shoulder. Zsasz looks up at you, then snaps the book closed. He hands you the bag and one of the cups (which you recognize as your favorite strong, spicy chai latte), grabs your overnight, and gestures for you to walk past him to the door, and when you reach his car, a stately black towncar, he pulls the passenger door open for you and gently shuts the door behind you. You settle in as he tosses your bag into the backseat, and slides into the driver’s seat. He hands the bag to you.

“I got you an apple fritter,” he says, starting the car. He remembered you liked them. You’re a little surprised at that, but you smile, nevertheless.

“Thanks,” you reply. He nods. “How’s your bullet wound?” Zsasz looks over at you.

“It’s fine. You did good work, angel.”

“Regular range of motion?” He lets out a soft laugh.

“Perfect, doctor,” he replies.

“Don’t give me any of that sass, boy,” you say, trying to stifle your grin. “I’m trying to make sure my work wasn’t shoddy.”

“It wasn’t, angel. I’m okay.”

“Okay.” You turn to stare through the windshield. Then look back over at him. “So what does Don Falcone want?”

“Ah,” Zsasz tsks. “Not my job to tell you, angel. You’ll know in a few minutes.”

“Or you could just tell me now,” Zsasz looks over at you; you let your bottom lip poke out, just a little bit, and make your eyes go a tiny bit wider. Zsasz sighs.

“He needs a favor.”

“Don Carmine Falcone needs a favor, from _me_?” You reply, letting out a soft, confused chuckle.

“Don’t sound so surprised, angel. You’re plenty powerful in your own right, whether you like it or not.”

“That’s what I’m trying to avoid,” you mutter. “Life is difficult enough without having to deal with Gotham underground shit.”

“Despite evidence to the contrary, you can always say no,” he murmurs, after a long stretch of quiet. You turn to look at him, again, and smile, a little sadly.

“We both know that’s not true, Zsasz.” He meets your look with an unreadable one of his own, then turns back to watch the road.

“If it’s possible for anyone, it is for you,” he replies.

The rest of the ride to Falcone’s office is uneventful. When he parks in front of the building on the quiet street, you move to open the car door but Zsasz hits the lock button. You sigh and wait impatiently as he arrives to your side of the car and opens it for you.

“For the record,” you say, ignoring his outstretched hand and rising out of the car, “I don’t like being coddled.”

“Yeah, you put your thousand dollar jeans on one leg at a time.”

“Hey,” you point to your black jeans, then gesture to your matching v neck sweater. “Both of these cost $30 all together. This _leather jacket_ was $900,” you mutter, swinging your knapsack onto your shoulder. “And that’s really rich coming from a man wearing a $3,300 Omega watch,” you add, meeting his gaze. His face goes blank. Then he stops you, waving you away from the backseat door as you open it.

“Touche. Leave those in the car.”

“No need. I’m leaving for home straightaway after.”

“I’m driving you.”

“No the fuck you’re not. Not in this thing. Not up to those gates. Not where my family can see and start asking questions.”

“I am. When Falcone gives me an order, I follow it.” He slides your knapsack off your shoulder and puts it in the passenger seat. “I’ll drop you off a mile away from that ridiculous mansion if it makes you happy. But you’re leaving here with me, angel. Sorry.” He doesn’t sound the least bit sorry, but you’re now too nervous to care. You shut the door.

“Fine, whatever. Let’s get this over with.” He gestures for you to walk ahead of him, a grin splashing across his face.

“That’s the spirit!”

 

6:15 pm

Falcone’s office is different in the day. And less crowded. You think that probably has everything to do with the fact that Falcone no longer perceives you as a threat to him, and you’re fine with that. He’s the last person you’d ever think to threaten. He rises to greet you, a warm smile on his face as he holds out his hand.

“You’re late,” he says, his gaze cutting over to Zsasz. He gestures for you to sit. You oblige him this time.

“It’s my fault,” you reply, crossing your legs. “I was in the midst of a work shift. Cara Cole says hello, by the way.” He smiles at that.

“Be sure to tell her I said hello back, Marguerite,” he replies, resuming his seat. “Do you mind if I call you Marguerite?”

“Of course not. I hate to be even ruder considering I held us up, but my family is expecting to see me soon…”

“Yes, of course.” Falcone leans back in his seat and sighs. “I need to ask you for quite a large favor.” Your eyes briefly go to Zsasz standing by the mirror, whose face is neutral, then back to Falcone. “I was hoping you would be able to help me with a personal matter.” You clear your throat and cross your hands on your lap.

“Well, I’ll do my best, Mr. Falcone.” Falcone smiles sadly.

“Carmine. My son has fled Gotham.”

“Mario?” Carmine nods.

“You remember him.”

“Yes. We went to prep school together. At least for the latter half of it, when he transferred to Gotham Prep.” That’s about as much as you’re willing to give him. Gotham Prep is notoriously small and snobbish, so everyone knows everyone and everyone knows everyone’s business. As a result, you know a lot of unsavory shit about Mario, to the point where him cutting out on his dad, probably to party and fuck in some random vacation city is unsurprising to you, considering he was notorious for it back in the day. But you’re not gonna be the one to bring that up first, not for love nor money.

“As you probably remember, he had a bit of a reckless streak. Running off, coming back weeks later when he ran out of money.

“He hasn’t done it for a few years, so I thought it was out of his system. But this time…is different. He took something very important, and dangerous. We haven’t had the best relationship, so I’m assuming he’s going to try to use it as leverage to get away from me once and for all.

“That information is very dangerous for him to have. It’s going to paint a huge target on his back when he eventually starts trying to sell it. Doing that will hurt both of us. I’ll survive it, somehow, but if Mario gets hurt because of my mistakes, especially when I promised his mother I’d keep him away from my businesses…I’ll never forgive myself. I have men out looking for him, but he knows them all, and trusts them about as far as he can throw them, and unfortunately, they aren’t particularly familiar with him or his…former habits. Not like I remember you, and certain others being. I hoped, if you would be kind enough to indulge me…”

“That I could find him and convince him to come back,” you finish. Falcone nods.

“Of course I would owe you a huge debt of gratitude.”

“You wouldn’t.” Carmine’s eyebrows shoot up. “Just meeting with me about Madison’s debt was a courtesy. And not dangling that transaction over my head was…admirable. You don’t owe me anything, Carmine.”

“So you’ll do it?”

“Of course. Family is important.” Carmine, again, looks taken aback by your response. The creases of worry in his face lighten somewhat.

“Thank you.”

“Of course,” you reply, smiling. Carmine nods to Zsasz, and he moves closer to the desk.

“Speaking of which, I realize that your family is expecting you, but I hope you would be able to start the search sooner rather than later?”

“That depends. When did you notice he was missing?”

“This afternoon,” Carmine replies. “He was supposed to meet me for lunch downtown at 3 pm and never showed. When I came back to my office, around 4, my assistant told me he’d stopped in my office and left again.” You bite your lip.

“Do you have the exact time?” Zsasz clears his throat.

“Angela put him leaving around 2:41 pm.” You turn your head to look at him.

“Was he carrying anything, at all? In his hands, his car, anything?”

“He was driving his sportster,” Carmine replies. “According to the bodyguard. It barely has room for two people.” You nod.

“You’re sure he’s not in Gotham? Not at his apartment or your house?”

“We’ve tossed the whole city. His apartment was the first place we checked.”

“Well, I’ll go there first, look for clues. Depending on how much of a head start he had, maybe he headed to a safehouse, to grab some supplies. Where’s your nearest one?” Zsasz’s eyes dart away from yours and to Carmine. You turn back to look at him.

“That…I’m afraid I can’t tell you.”

“Carmine,” you sigh. “How do you expect me to find him if you won’t give me basic information? I can’t just wander around the tri-state area with his photo and hope for the best.”

“That won’t be a problem. Victor will be accompanying you.” A knot forms in your throat. You have to keep yourself from tripping over words in your haste to disavow the idea.

“Oh, that’s…that won’t be necessary, I’m perfectly capable—”

“It’s not a question of your skills, Ms. Wayne. It’s a question of yours and Mario’s safety. Victor is simply…extra insurance.”

“If it were up to me, you wouldn’t be here at all, but Mr. Falcone insists that I bring him in as gently as possible, hence…” Zsasz gestures grandly to you. God, he’s fucking annoying. You sigh, rising to your feet.

“In that case,” you turn to leave the office, pulling your phone out of your pocket as you go, “give me a moment to make a call, and we can go.”

“Of course,” Carmine gestures for Zsasz to come closer. “He’ll be out in a minute to join you. And Marguerite?” You halt to take in Carmine. “Thank you again.” You nod and slip out.

 

You wander out toward the sidewalk, the phone ringing in your ear. As you slide your hand in your pocket and perch on the side of the towncar, Alfred picks up.

“Ah, you’re right on time! I’ve just popped your favorite in the oven. Fresh pear tart.” You grimace.

“Hi, Alfred. About that…” You chew on your lip, then spit out an easy lie. “I’m afraid I can’t make it tonight. My roommate and I are trying to get these papers done and we’ve only just cracked the thesis statements. It’s worth a huge chunk of my final grade.”

Alfred sighs. “Bruce is going to be very disappointed.” Your heart sinks.

“I know,” you reply. “I miss him too.” Zsasz exits the building in time to look upand catch your next sentence. “I’m hoping I’ll be able to finish tonight and be there early tomorrow morning.” Zsasz shakes his head. “But I can’t make any promises,” you add on hastily.

“Alright. I’ll inform Thomas and Martha.”

“I’m sorry Alfred.”

“I know, dear. Good luck on your paper.”

“Thanks. Send everyone my love. Bye.”

“Bye.” _Click!_ You let out a heavy sigh. Zsasz stands in front of you.

“Are you okay?” He inquires, his tone serious. You nod.

“I don’t like having to lie to them.”

“Part of the job, sweetness,” he shrugs. You roll your eyes.

“ _Your_ job, not mine. I’m supposed to be at school and being normal, not doing a poor imitation of my mother…” your voice peters out. That’s not a road you want to go down right now. Zsasz, his head tilting, gleans that. He steps closer to you, your knees almost touching, and he looks down at you.

“Are you sure you’re up for this?”

You nod. “You don’t wanna know how prepared for this I am.”

Zsasz smirks. “I actually do. But that doesn’t answer my original question.”

You take a deep breath. “I’m okay,” you exhale. He smiles.

“Good. Get off the car.” You roll your eyes as you rise from the hood and walk over to the passenger door.

“Sorry, Mr. Touchy.” You slide into the car, tossing your bag in the backseat. A matte black bag on the seat next to your bag catches your eyes. You look over at him, realization clicking into place as he starts the car and pulls away from the curb. “You knew this would happen. Us gallivanting off and not being in Gotham tonight.”

His eyes fix on the road. “Yes.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Would you have come along if I did?”

“Don’t lie to me.”

“I didn’t lie to you.”

“A lie by omission is still a lie, Zsasz.” He shifts in his seat.

“You still haven’t answered my question.”

“Because you know it would have been no. Because I have no reason to trust you.”

“Touche.” You sigh.

“Where are we going?” Zsasz pulls onto Eighth Street; you’re moving east.

“Mario’s apartment. It’s the best bet, at least for clues. Falcone’s already got his other people going to the nearby safehouses to cover all the possibilities.” You nod, thinking, trying to recall a little about what you knew about him in high school.

“Given the givens,” you say, “He’s probably out of the city, on his way to Metropolis by now.”

“How do you figure that, angel?” You spare him a glance, and shrug at his curious look.

“Call it a hunch.”

“Let me humor your hunch.” You sigh.

“Every weekend we had off, that’d be the place he wanted to go. We all just assumed it was because that was the closest place he could get to that his dad couldn’t keep an eye on him. But who knows. People change.”

Zsasz huffs. “Not Mario. You’re probably right. But we’ll search his apartment before we jump to conclusions.”

Zsasz pulls up to a gorgeous high rise apartment 10 minutes later, just three buildings down from your parents’ old place. He rolls into the garage entrance and parks on the second level. You get out before he can even cut the engine off. He follows you out, rolling his eyes, and gestures for you to join him at the trunk. He unlocks and pulls up the false bottom, revealing an impeccable line up of weapons, a beautiful array of guns lining the right, knives, gleaming and honed to perfection, to the left, and ammunition and holsters underneath them all. Your heart leaps with excitement. It’s a stunning little collection he has in this trunk, though you’re sure that this can’t be the extent of it.

“Ladies’ choice,” he says, sliding extra clips for his guns into his pockets. Your eyes track over the impressive arsenal, and, after strapping a holster he offers you to your leg, you pick out a Beretta and five clips. Zsasz whistles. “Excellent taste, Wayne. Just got that one. Haven’t had the chance to test it out. Let me know how it shoots.” You nod, loading a clip and cocking it. Then you reach for a sharp, slim Bowie knife and, after sliding your jacket off, strap it to your back, strapping the knife holster around your waist and over one shoulder. You yank your jacket back on and follow him as he shuts the false bottom and his trunk and walks toward the elevator. 

The doors open and he waves you in first, then hits the button for the penthouse when the doors close.

“Typical,” you murmur. “The boy’s flat isn’t even humble.”

“You’ve known him longer, what did you expect?” Zsasz holds his arm in front of you to halt you as the doors open. He steps out to check the hall, then waves for you to follow. He turns left and walks to the apartment door, reaching into his jacket pocket to pull out a leather pouch.

“Cover me,” he says, kneeling. You oblige, drawing your gun and aiming it at the center of the door. He quickly picks the lock and rises, then knocks. The two of you pull away from the middle of it, to either side. Nothing. Zsasz pulls his gun, kicks the door open, and takes lead. You follow him, mirroring his moves. He moves back, down the hall to the bathroom, while you clear the front room and kitchen.

Mario’s apartment is…in a word, ostentatious. Polished wood, corinthian leather, dark and moody and dramatic.

You holster the gun and open the fully stocked fridge. Half a case of water is missing. You look over to the sink, and you see crumbs on a plate, a single cup, and a frying pan, but the fridge is missing bread, and has a couple gaps in the door where the cheeses are. There’s similar gaps in the drawer with the fruit. You wave your hand over the stove, feeling a tiny bit of warmth. You look for the garbage.

Zsasz finds you, three minutes later, laying out scraps of paper on the counter.

“The shower was used,” he says, joining you at the counter. “His weapons are gone too.”

“Does Mario have a regular guard?” You say, organizing the last of the scraps.

“Yeah. He slipped him. So his guard has been relegated from an is to a was. What are you fucking around with over here?”

“I found this in the garbage. It looks like a list of clubs in Metropolis.” Zsasz peers at the list over your shoulder. Then reaches around you to tap one third from the bottom.

“These are all Ausiello mob fronts,” he says. You look up at him in surprise, and catch a similar look of realization on his face.

“How would Mario get his hands on something like this?” Zsasz shrugs, a mask quickly falling over his eyes.

“He’s clearly very enterprising,” he replies. You stare at him, incredulous.

“Did this come out of the file?” He shrugs again. You let out a sharp scoff.

“So that’s a yes. And therein lies my next question. Why does Carmine have a list of Ausiello mob fronts in a highly important business file?”

“You’re going to keep digging even if I say ‘let this go’, aren’t you?” Zsasz mutters, meeting your gaze.

“Is he trying to conduct a takeover?” You reply. Zsasz lets out a long-suffering sigh.

“Angel—”

“Yes or no, Zsasz.”

“It’s not—”

“Yes. Or. No.” He huffs. Then nods. You cross your arms and lean back against the counter.

“So Carmine Falcone’s son is wandering around parts unknown with a file that contains Falcone’s plans on how to take down the biggest mob on the eastern seaboard, and, based on the optics of this,” you say, gesturing to the scraps sitting on the counter, “he’s trying to sell the information, for who knows why or for what. Which will most certainly get him killed by said mob and start a war that Falcone definitely won’t survive. Have I covered everything?”

“More or less,” he murmurs, not meeting your gaze. You lean back against the counter.

“Zsasz. Look at me,” he does. “I need you to tell me the truth. The real truth. What did he take from Carmine?” Zsasz gnaws on his bottom lip, then sighs.

“The plan you described. Along with some collateral. Amongst other things. That file is more or less the key to the empire.” You exhale, slowly, your mind cycling through the implications. You turn to look at him.

“Are we really after this file or Mario?” Zsasz steps toward you, looks you square in the eye.

“Let me make this clear. If that file gets into the wrong hands, Falcone will be done. But if we make it back with the file but without Mario, Falcone will put us both in the ground without hesitation.”

“Is that a carrot or a stick?” You say, sarcasm dripping from every word. You don’t wait for a response, simply turning back toward the counter. “So let’s say theoretically that Mario, for whatever reason, is trying to sell the information to the Ausiello organization. How would he get in contact?”

Zsasz retreats from you, then leans against the stove. “He has to go to one of the clubs to meet with a lieutenant, and supply some of the intel, as proof. If it pans out and it’s worth Anthony Ausiello’s time, they’ll give him another location and a time. Probably isolated, preferably late. Less likely to stage an ambush that way.” You nod, tapping your bottom lip as your eyes go over the list again.

“So that means if he made the call while in transit, he’ll have a few hours with nothing to do in Metropolis.”

“Why are you so sure about this? I don’t like him, at all, but he wouldn’t be fucking moronic enough to hand over documents like that to his father’s competition.”

“He would if it meant he could possibly negotiate a way for Carmine to get out of the mob business, ” you murmur. “He was kind of obsessed with the idea after his mom died. Thought that if his dad could just walk the straight and narrow then everything would be fine between them…” Your gaze flits over a familiar name, and you smirk, looking up at him. “I knew it. Percy’s. He’s gonna be at Percy’s, the club. I didn’t even know that place was mob owned. It’s his favorite spot.”

“You sound like you know from experience,” Zsasz says, watching you. You coyly tilt your head, sweeping the scraps into the garbage disposal and turning it on.

“You sound jealous,” you reply, scrubbing your hands clean in the sink. The faint chime of the elevator door makes you pause.

“Perish the thought. Percy’s is upscale. You’re gonna have to change. And I can’t go in with yo—” Zsasz trails off abruptly, staring as you spin, reach for his shoulder and yank him to the ground behind the table. You point at the door before he can protest.

“You didn’t invite company, did you?” He whispers. You shake your head, pulling your gun out as you get your feet under you. Zsasz tsks. “Neither did I. Wonder who it could be.” He motions for you to stay low and you obey, slow and quiet, watching as he slinks through the living room and over to the wall behind the front door, and waits.

A massive shadow appears on the floor. A man, broad and thick chested, enters. Zsasz kicks the door closed with a quick move and his arm is around the man’s neck, the sharp point of a knife against his carotid artery.

“Don’t yell,” Zsasz says, his voice cool and even. “Or I’ll have to open your throat, and I’d really like to not have to do that. I just cleaned my boots. Give up your gun.” You rise and step forward, taking the weapon out of the man’s outstretched hand. “Who sent you?”

“Maroni,” the man says. “He told me I should find Mario and grab a file he’s got with him.” Your eyes narrow.

“Are you here with anyone else?” You say. The man swallows nervously. Zsasz’s holds the knife tighter against his throat.

“Shit, okay, not yet. I’m just early, I only live 10 minutes away. I have a group of guys coming in 5 minutes.” Zsasz tsks.

“Annoying.” His wrist tenses.

“No,” you blurt out. “Don’t kill him.” Zsasz rolls his eyes.

“This, angel, is what we _professionals_ like to call a loose end. I don’t like loose ends. I have a formal stance against them.”

“You kill him, you give Maroni a reason to kill us and Mario on sight, not to mention give him grounds to start a war. I don’t think Falcone would want this whole ordeal to turn into a gang war, personally.” Zsasz’s eyes dart to you, then he sighs.

“Fuck it.” He redirects his attention to the man. “You didn’t see us. You didn’t find anything. The house was already empty when you got here.”

“Wh—” Zsasz holds the point tighter to his neck and sighs.

“This pretty girl just saved your life once. Don’t make her have to bargain for it again. Get out. Take the stairs down.” He releases the man, and he yanks the door open, sprinting for the stairwell. You let out a sigh. Zsasz turns to you.

“I say we’ve got about 2 minutes before his reinforcements show up angry. We need to leave.”

He ushers you out, then directs you toward the elevator, then back down to the garage. 

“You realize,” you begin as Zsasz pulls onto the Gotham Overpass five minutes later, “that info like this spreading to Maroni that quickly means you have a rat.” Zsasz’s gloved hands tighten on the wheel.

“We’ve been aware,” he growls. “It’s being handled.” You feel heat creep up in your body at the way he sinks his teeth into the sentence. He looks over at you and smirks, and you again, get the sensation that he’s reading your mind. The part of your mind that you’re desperately trying to stifle. “Don’t you worry your pretty little head over that, sweetness.”

“I wasn’t. It’s not my problem anyway.” Zsasz, chuckles a bit.

“Sweet of you to bring it up though.”

“I’m not sweet,” you snap. Zsasz lets out a laugh.

“Yeah, that’s the point.”

 

7:42 pm

You’re not a very talkative person by nature. Everyone you know says, considering how charismatic you can be in social settings, it’s surprising how long you can go without uttering a word to another person. Zsasz has you beat by a mile. 45 minutes into your journey, just after sunset, the dead silence begins to drive you crazy. You reach into your backpack and pull out a set of headphones and an mp3 player.

“There’s an AUX cord in the dash,” Zsasz murmurs. You hesitate, then shrug, shoving your headphones back into your bag. “Don’t play anything irritating.”

You roll your eyes, plugging your player in. “My musical taste is anything but irritating.” You flick through your list of artists and hit play, grinning to yourself at your selection.

Electronic violins, followed by synthesized wooden drums soar through the speakers. Zsasz’s eyes cut over to you as the beat kicks in.

“Not irritating,” he murmurs. His fingers drum lightly on the steering wheel to the beat.

“So you like Lykke Li,” you say, plucking Zsasz’s _Karamazov_ off the backseat. “Unexpected.”

“That’s pretty judgey, Wayne.”

“What, like saying that a girl should be carrying a Walther PPK instead of a Glock? Because that strikes me as judgey too.”

“That’s not a judgment, it’s a statement of fact. _You_ should be carrying a PPK. The recoil on that isn’t nice on your wrists, is it?”

“It isn’t nice if you don’t know how to shoot. I do. Stop underestimating me.”

“Stop overestimating yourself,” he fires back.

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” Zsasz looks over at you, briefly.

“You may have handled some small time enforcers, but that doesn’t mean you’re cut out for this.” Oh, that’s your last straw. You turn toward him, your eyes narrowed to slits.

“You clearly don’t know anything about me then, Zsasz.”

“Where’s your Glock?” You glare at him, your embarrassment simmering just below your anger.

“Obviously I don’t have it, because I usually don’t need a fucking gun when I’m at work.” Zsasz scoffs.

“Impressive.”

“Zsasz,” you sigh. “If you didn’t want me to come along, why didn’t you just tell Falcone that?”

He gives you a sidelong look, then sighs. “Because Mario will not come quietly if I try to bring him in myself,” he murmurs, grudgingly.

“Hm,” you hum, then look over at him. “Impressive.” Zsasz’s fingers tighten around the wheel. He turns to glare at you.

“Listen, like it or not, you’re not your mother. You’re a pretty socialite who knows self defense. So just be a good honeypot, do what I tell you, and help me bring Mario back.” His words sting, a lot. But you’ll be good and goddamned if you let on how much. You bite your bottom lip and turn to look at him, your face neutral.

“I’ve never even vaguely suggested that I’m anything like my mother or anything other than a random fucking socialite. The only reason I’m even still involved with you and this whole business is because you lack so much self-control, you can’t convince your boss that you can bring his son back without cutting off one of his fucking ears. So here’s an idea. How about you just be a good courier and let me handle the mob son wrangling?”

Zsasz’s jaw tics. Then he looks over at you, briefly, his gaze a little dangerous. “I’m not in the habit of letting people speak to me like that, Wayne.”

“Get used to it,” you shoot back. You lift your feet and plant them on the dash of the car for good measure, and look over at him, daring him to say something about it.

Zsasz’s eyes meet yours, a little narrowed, as if he can’t believe you’re giving him so much fucking attitude, but he says nothing, his foot pressing harder into the gas instead.

You huff as you stare out of the passenger side window.

This is gonna be a long fucking night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oho ho issa bout to go down!!
> 
> Well, at least I didn't let a full month go by before an update happened! And I made this a big ass chapter, mostly because my original configuration had the next one as a page and a half, and that just wouldn't do!
> 
> So I'm finally getting a work/life balance that'll hopefully get me posting and updating this more regularly. Thank you all for your comments and kudos, they mean a lot! It's always nice to open my email and see something really sweet said about this story!
> 
> Also, I dunno about you guys, but I feel like Zsasz would probably like Lykke Li's album, "Wounded Rhymes". It's...unexpected.
> 
> See you soon!


	7. Return of the Mack

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zsasz’s jaw clenches as he looks at you, his eyes boring into yours, and you smile, slowly crossing your legs and lean forward, toward him.  
> “What are you doing?” He grits out.  
> “I’m being a good honeypot, Zsasz, just like you said I should.”  
> “Cute,” he replies, sighing. His eyes flicker down to your legs, then back up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Title: "Return of the Mack" by Mack Morrison

10:34 pm

 

You have to admit; you like the way Zsasz is looking at you in your new dress. You know it’s the winner the second you step out of the dressing room and his eyes just keep…tracing over you. That, complete with the look of you legs in the matching heels, cinches it. Andrea, the dress shop owner, says as much.

“You look fantastic, Margo,” she says, tugging on the edge of the super thin, super body hugging dress. “This will kill.” She’s not wrong; it’s clingy, and black, stopping just above your knees and draping down to your lower back. You nod, adjusting your bra underneath the dark, soft fabric. “That’ll have to come off though. It’s going to ruin the lines.”

“I think you have too much confidence in my tits’ ability to stay perky,” you crack. Andrea scoffs.

“You’re underestimating my dress construction skills, Margo. Your mother made that mistake only once.”

“Fair enough,” you reply. You quickly take off your bra and pull your panties down and off your legs, then toss them on a nearby chair. Andrea nods appreciatively.

“ _That’s_ how that’s supposed to look. Am I right?” She turns to look at Victor, sitting in one of the armchairs next to the dressing room entrance, your jacket slung over one of the arms. His face is still, blank, but his eyes are bright, hungry as they go over you. You’re heating up, as he watches you move, as his eyes slowly trail down your body. He swallows.

“That’ll do,” he says, his voice deeper than usual. Andrea nods triumphantly, then turns back to look at you in the full length, three way mirror.

“Told you. I’ll just put this on your tab.”

“Perfect, thank you, Andrea.”

“The real way to thank me would be to tell me what this is about.” You hesitate, briefly, before answering.

“I don’t know if it would be safe to tell you,” you reply, diplomatically. Andrea stops fussing with your hem and looks up at you, then.

“Margo,” she starts, her tone a warning.

“It’ll be fine—”

“Margo, the last thing you should be doing is messing around with the Ausiellos.”

“I’m not…technically.”

“Fucking Elliots and their fucking _technicalities,_ come _on now_ —”

“Andrea, I mean it. It’s all fine. I’m not picking a fight with the Ausiellos. Quite the opposite.” Andrea starts to speak, then looks over to Zsasz, briefly.

“Did Falcone ask you to do…whatever this is?” You nod. Andrea bites her bottom lip, anxiously, then reaches up and touches your cheek. “I understand that your mom poured a lot of time into making you something to be afraid of, but I really need you to remember that at the heart of it all, you’re still just a person, sweetie. Please, please remember that, okay?” You nod, unsure of what to say, and she smiles, a little.

“Be fucking careful, okay? The Ausiellos are not to be fucked with. Even your mom knew that.”

“Okay. I will.”

“Okay. I’m gonna go get you a bag for your things.”

“Thanks, Andrea,” you reply. She lifts your clothes and boots out of the dressing room and walks into the darkened storefront. You turn back to the mirror, tapping your lip as you stare at your hair, fiddling with the braids around your face.

“She’s right,” Zsasz murmurs.

“What?” He shifts in his seat.

“Your mom was one of maybe three people that struck genuine fear into them, and you apparently take right after her. You just showing up to Percy’s will raise some questions.” You turn to look at him.

“What are you suggesting then, Zsasz? That you go in and probably incite hostilities just by being in Metropolis? That we pull a random off the street and talk them into helping us? We have no other choice, mate. I’m not the best choice, but at least I’m not the person who killed one of their best enforcers.” You turn back to the mirror, raking your hands through your hair.

“So how do you know the most in-demand dressmaker on the eastern seaboard?” Zsasz murmurs, after a moment. You look at him through the mirror briefly.

“She and my father went to prep school together. I’ve known her for years.”

“Hm.” You roll your eyes. He’s been silent and monosyllabic since the two of you walked in. This is the longest string of words he’s put together since he introduced himself to Andrea.

“Zsasz. Make yourself useful,” you gesture to your hair. “Up or down?” Zsasz rises, then slowly moves toward you until he’s standing behind you, just outside your halo of personal space, your jacket in his hands. He’s staring at you in the mirror; you can feel his gaze on you like a touch, trailing up your hips, to your waist, across your breasts, to your collarbone, then up to your eyes. Then down your bare back to your ass. He lets a sharp breath out through his nose.

“Down. Over your shoulder.” His eyes meet yours again. “Mario’s gonna want to run his fingers through it.”

“I know,” you reply, sighing as you sweep your braids over your left shoulder. “That was kinda his thing in school. Though I don’t know from personal experience,” you add on, off the way he looks at you. You turn around to look at him.

“That’s surprising. You’re his type.”

“He’s not mine, and I don’t like it when people touch my hair without asking,” you reply. “But I’m willing to fake it for a good cause.”

“Hm.” Zsasz holds up your jacket and you slide your arms in. He lays the leather across your shoulders and his hands drop away from you. “Which one; liking him or touching your hair?”

“Yes,” you reply, turning to look at him. “But mostly the hair thing.”

Zsasz nods, then checks his watch. “We’ve already wasted an hour here. We need to go.” You smirk at him, then glide past.

“I don’t think creating this,” you gesture to your body, “and inspiring that look in your eyes was a waste of time. But yeah. We should get going.”

“Right.” He reaches over to the seat next to the mirror and you realize, a split second too late, that he’s holding your underwear. “Wouldn’t want to forget these though.” Your face heats, and you step toward him, taking them out of his hands. He smirks as he walks toward the exit. “Stickler for matching, aren’t you?”

“Your wardrobe is probably 99.7% black,” you fire back, following him out.

 

10:47 pm

 

Your hair is the easy part, because that’s why you have it in braids all the time, so it can always be the easy part. It’s loose, trailing over one shoulder, tickling your exposed collar. Your makeup takes the 10 minutes it takes to get from Andrea’s dress shop to Percy’s. You can feel Zsasz’s eyes on you as you line your eyes, then fill in the wings at the corners.

“I’m getting the sense you’ve done your makeup in a moving car in the middle of the night before, Wayne,” he says. You grin at him, and you could swear that you could just see a spark of _something_ in his eyes.

“Mario didn’t corner the market on being a badly behaved prep school kid,” you reply. “The rest of us at Gotham were just better at hiding it. Though it always seemed intentionally attention grabbing on his part.”

“Unsurprising,” Zsasz replies. “He had the same streak when he went to Lancaster.” You open your mouth, to voice your surprise, only to realize that somehow, you’re not surprised. “What?” You shrug. “What were you gonna say, Wayne?”

“Nothing. Makes sense he went to Lancaster before Gotham. Especially in light of all the rumors about his transfer.”

“Rumors?”

“Yeah, of course rumors,” you reply, digging out a soft matte mauve lipstick. “There was only like…two elite schools per advancement up until 3 years ago, so most of us went to school together from young. I met Mario in kindergarden.”

“Was he doing blow and getting blown in middle school?”

“Nice wordplay, but don’t be an asshole. You have to know how it is. Catholic rich kids don’t turn into hitmen overnight.” Zsasz shoots a look at you; not hostile, but a little hard.

“Explain the rumors, while I try to figure out if I should be offended or not.”

“Mario got sent to Lancaster out of middle school. We figured, after his mum died, his dad wanted to keep him close; Mario was dead set against it, but his dad insisted. But then he showed up at Gotham Prep in the middle of sophomore year. We assumed that he got kicked out. My money was on sexually pestering the nuns.”

“Close; he tried to fuck one of the teachers.” You almost drop your lipstick.

“Shut the fuck up, _really?!_ ” Zsasz nods.

“You didn’t hear that from me. So, Wayne,” he turns fully to look at you after he parks. “We’re rapidly running out of time before one of us gets recognized and the Ausiellos turn up to start asking some violent questions. What’s the game plan here?”

“Easy,” you reply, recapping your lipstick and tucking it in your jacket pocket. “I lure him out, get him in the car, and we drive straight back to Gotham.”

“Simple, elegant. One problem. How sure are you that you can get him out of the club?”

“Mario has wanted to fuck me since 11th grade,” you say. “I rejected him, many times. But who knows, maybe a couple years of separation has made me warm to the prospect.” Zsasz still looks skeptical. You smirk, an idea blossoming. 

You tilt your head, as you reach up and push your hair out of your face, then let your fingers trail down your jaw, to your neck, and across your collarbone. Zsasz’s jaw clenches as he looks at you, his eyes boring into yours, andyou smile, slowly crossing your legs and lean forward, toward him.

“What are you doing?” He grits out.

“I’m being a good honeypot, Zsasz, just like you said I should.”

“Cute,” he replies, sighing. His eyes flicker down to your legs, then back up.

“I mean, really, look at me,” you murmur. “Who _wouldn’t_ want to fuck me?” Zsasz’s eyes never leave yours. You can feel him vibrating with energy, at your closeness. Your breath is shaky, your heart suddenly hammering in your chest, just off the way he looks at you, the way he bites his bottom lip. An intense, tension filled moment passes.

“Sweetness,” his voice is low and gravelly as his eyes flit down to your lips. “You need to get out of this car, right now, or we’re going to end up ruining that beautiful dress of yours before Mario even gets to see it.” Your breath hitches, white hot shivers radiating all over your body. Zsasz flinches, shutting his eyes briefly, then turns back to the wheel. He holds up his arm, the face of his Omega watch visible. “Tick tock, angel.” You shift in your seat, then push the door open.

“Twenty minutes,” you say, over your shoulder, before you slide out and saunter across the street and down the block to the entrance.

Zsasz lets out a long breath as he watches you walk away, the sway of your hips pulling the attention of most of the men (and a few of the women) you pass. Fuck. _Fuck._ You’re trouble. Dangerous trouble.

He didn’t expect much from you when he officially met you, three years ago, standing at Falcone’s side at one of those tedious rich people circle jerks, the Wayne Enterprises fundraising gala for the Gotham orphanage.

Of course he thought you were beautiful; he’d always thought you were beautiful, but beautiful was easy for anyone to be. No, it was that glint in your eye when the police commissioner kissed you on the cheek. The funny and pointed compliment you gave the mayor. The unbelievable way you flirted with the billionaires and how they happily parted with their money after. You weren’t just pretty; you were _entrancing._ So much so that Victor had missed at least four cues from Falcone that night because he was looking at you. He’d manage to push you from his mind in the interim, but three years running, whenever Falcone went to these charity galas, he’d find himself to be one of dozens of men who were looking for you. Looking for your clever smile, the rise and fall of your voice, that unbelievably absorbing glint in your eye…

But that was typical of Gotham socialites. Smart, charismatic, flirtatious (though he remembered how quickly you’d shut down the advances of people you didn’t like). Aside from that glint, you would be typical.

It was when you walked into Falcone’s office, fury in your eyes, and a readiness to break a bodyguard’s arm despite being outnumbered, that you got him. _Really_ got him. Sure you were scared, who could blame you?, but you were also terrifying. Falcone had to be well and truly shook by how fucked up his men were in order to command Zsasz to check you not once but twice. He liked that. He liked that you weren’t afraid of him too; that you were irreverent, that you were even willing to threaten him, and did, gladly, even in your fucking pajamas. On anyone else, it would have irked him, how casual and sharp you were, but on you. Fuck, on _you_ …

Not to mention what happened on that roof six years ago, you and all your fearless confidence, your wide, crooked smiles as you pulled your shoes off and stood at the edge of the building…

And despite his well voiced protestations, you _did_ know how to handle yourself. You hold that gun like a seasoned veteran. You move like a killer. You fight, however briefly he got to see, like you were ready to die and take your opponent down with you. And he’s _sure_ , just based on all of it, on all he knew and observed and learned about you, that you kiss and fuck like a goddess.

As much as Mario irks him, he can sympathize. It’s alarmingly easy to want you.

“Fuck,” Victor sighs, rubbing his eyes with his gloved hand. He looks up at the door to the club, breathes to calm himself, to control his desire, to focus. And he waits.

_Twenty minutes_ , he thinks. _We’ll see_.

 

You’re shaking. Your nerves are shot. Your vision is cloudy; you’re seeing shapes of people, hearing a notion of music, but you can feel the heat of Zsasz’s body close to you still, you can smell his pine scented cologne, sense his heavy breath on your skin. Fuck, you _wanted_ him to. You wanted him to get his hands around your waist, to press his mouth to yours, to rip your dress off, drive his cock into you. You’re _still_ ready for it, more than ready for it. _Fuck_. You can’t stop thinking of how he looks, _period_ , solid and sharp, terrifying, and shockingly, _unbelievably_ sexy. When he smirks at you, his gaze boring into you, you want to throw yourself at him. When he had that knife on Maroni’s man, you _should_ have been frightened at how ready he was to fucking murder another person, for nothing. He’s supposed to _scare_ you, isn’t he? You’re not supposed to _want_ him.

Your mind is still roiling, your concentration shot as you sidle up to the bar, pulling your jacket off and tossing it onto the bartop. But it’s not so shot that you don’t feel eyes on you. You don’t even need to wave the bartender down, she just appears, looking at you like she wants a piece for now and one to-go. You smile, laying a twenty down in front of her.

“Whiskey, double,” you say. The bartender waves your money away.

“First one’s on me, sweetheart,” she replies, winking. You smile wider, thanking her as she goes to prep it. You pull in a deep breath, then exhale; your mind needs to be clear right now. You have a job to do.

You cast a relaxed, furtive look around the club. It’s crowded, expensive, cloaked in red and black as people dance, flirt, smoke, watch. You finally clock Mario, on the other side of the round bar, watching you. He looks exactly the same, his hooded eyes beautiful, refined, passionately handsome, a cruel and confident tilt of his mouth. Your eyes flit over him, and you smile at the bartender as she sets a drink in front of you. You push the twenty toward her and wink.

“Call it a tip,” you say, bringing your drink to your lips. She smiles back as she picks it up, then moves to help another customer. The whiskey is smooth as it goes down, burning when it hits your chest. You exhale sharply. You’ll have to be careful. You tend to get fucked up on the top shelf stuff quicker.

Your eyes go around the bar again, and you see, in the booth slightly off to his left, two thick, tall men in suits. The one on the right keeps casting a look to Mario every so often. The other, after watching you for a bit, returned to surveying the club.

The bartender makes her way back to you, then sits an entire bottle of expensive peach schnapps on the bartop.

“From the gentleman on the other side of the bar,” she says, gesturing to Mario. “He said you’d get it.” You force a smile. You do; how would you be able to forget getting drunk on peach schnapps with him and a group of your mutual friends and, on a dare, tightrope walking from the class buildings to the administration building whilst shitfaced, _just_ to prove you could? Your father was furious. Your mother was too proud of you to hide the look of glee on her face, but she did agree with your father on the excessive duration of your punishment. That ended up turning into a particularly bad showdown over your training between the two of them, and Mario had been extra persistent and extra irritating in his advances after that.

“I do; thanks,” you reply. You hook your pinky finger into the loop on your leather jacket, pick up your drink, lift the bottle off the bar and walk toward him, grinning as you meet his eyes.

“Elliot,” he says, turning to you and opening his arms wide. You smile and lay the bottle and your jacket on the bar, then lean into the hug. His hands skim across your back and through your hair when he lets go, one settling on your waist.

“Calvi,” you reply, smiling. “How have you been?”

“Not as good, as you, clearly,” he looks you over in awe. “You look…amazing, though I’m sure you know that already.”

“Yeah, it’s hard to miss when everyone’s looking at me,” you reply, grinning. “You look pretty damn good yourself, Mario. I haven’t seen you in years. What the hell are you doing in Metropolis?” Mario hesitates, his eyes narrowing a fraction.

“I could ask you the same question,” he shoots back, his tone playful. You shrug, your mind racing.

“I was in Louisiana on holiday,” you say, “Just working my way back up to Gotham before I go to Morocco for a bit. Thomas would cut me off if I didn’t go home every once in a while.” He appears satisfied with your answer. “You?”

“I’m here on business,” he says; his eyes dart over to the mirror behind the bar, to where the guards you spotted earlier are sitting, and his hand runs down from your waist to your hips. Then he squeezes it. He can’t feel any underwear through the thin material, you can tell. His eyes stray down, then back up to your face, languidly. You smirk and lift your drink to your lips.

“Now, _where_ are you going, just wearing a dress like _this_ ,” he says, pulling you closer to him. You lean in, one hand resting your drink on his thigh, the other on his chest, your lips brushing the shell of his ear. His other hand comes up, you can see it in the corner of your eye, to signal the guards to stay.

“I’m looking for some trouble,” you whisper. Your hand strays, up from his chest to the back of his neck; your hip brushes against the bulge in his pants. Mario flinches and you chuckle in his ear. “And if I remember correctly, you were always the guy who knew how to find it.” Mario’s hand reaches around your hip and he squeezes your ass, hard. You jump. He laughs this time, his other hand carding through your braids.

“If I remember correctly, you wouldn’t give me the time of day,” he says, squeezing your chin.

“I wasn’t aware that I’m not allowed to change my mind, Calvi,” you say, forcing a grin. Mario’s eyes narrow.

“It only took you six fucking years, Elliot,” he replies, dryly. Your fingers gently dance against the back of his neck and he shivers, his breath catching as you pull him toward you. You know what you have to do, and you _really_ don’t want to. But you gotta. You hold his neck, and pull his mouth down to yours, trapping his bottom lip between your teeth. Mario gasps, softly as your tongue slides into his mouth; you pull him away from you by his hair a moment later, smirking at the glassy look in his eyes.

“In my defense,” you murmur, tilting your head, ever so slightly, making your eyes flicker down to his lips, “you were irritatingly persistent, and kind of an asshole, but now you’ve grown into your eyebrows, I’m horny as fuck, and I’m kind of curious to see if those stories I heard about you in high school were true. So, what’s it gonna be?”

Mario lets out a sharp laugh; his eyes fix on yours; you’re calm, holding his gaze. Waiting for him to come to the foregone conclusion.

Then he breathes deep and he slides out of his seat, his bulge pressing against you as he gets to his feet. You finish your drink; he does the same, slamming it down on the bar. He motions for you to wait, then walks over to the men; the conversation gets a little heated, before Mario dismisses himself, tossing a “I’ll be back in an hour,” over his shoulder as he comes back to you. 

“I’m ready when you are,” he says; you pull your jacket on and grab the schnapps bottle.

“Won’t your dad be a little annoyed that you slipped your detail?” You say; you’re hoping he’ll give you some indication of his plans. Maybe if he’s pissed at his dad, you’ll find a way to talk him down.

Mario scoffs as he shoulders his jacket on. “Those aren’t my dad’s men. They’d be a whole lot more fucking competent if they were. But if I play this right,” he continues, cornering you against the bartop, “he won’t have to worry about that.”

“What do you mean?” You murmur. Mario smirks as his arms go around you waist and he pulls you forward, walking you toward the door.

“Come on, Elliot,” he says, taking the schnapps bottle out of your hands. “Let’s go make some memories.” 

 

11:04 pm

 

You can’t help but be pleased with yourself. Mario is draped all over you, his nose just as wide open as it was in high school, and it didn’t even take you fifteen minutes. You start toward Zsasz’s car, moving as fast as you can, trying to hustle Mario down the block before his guards decide that your appearance was too convenient to be coincidental. You know somehow that Zsasz can see you, with Mario’s hands on your thighs, trying to get your dress up. You turn in his arms, forcing a laugh.

“Someone’s eager,” you say, your feet still moving. Mario’s hands claw at your waist, snaking underneath your jacket to touch your bare skin.

“I’ve been waiting for this since that tightrope walk, Elliot,” he murmurs. “Damn right I’m eager.” You twist out of his grip and step into the street, pulling him along with you, behind a massive van, just out of sight of the door. “Easy. My car’s this way.” He points further down the street.

“Nope,” you take the schnapps bottle away from him and gesture to the corner with it. “You’ve been drinking. I’m driving. Sorry, handsome.”

Mario sighs as he follows you across the street and tosses his arms around your waist, his breath fanning out on the back of your neck. “Fine. Lead the way, pretty girl.” The two of you manage to make it across the street and get within fifteen feet of the car before he pauses, looking up, and past you. You look up to see Zsasz, standing outside the driver’s side, waving.

“Hi ho. Need a taxi?” Mario lets you go immediately, but you’re faster. You grab his wrist and twist under it and around him, pressing his knuckles against his back and driving him toward Zsasz, who pushes him against the trunk and zipties his wrists together, patting him down as you haul the backseat door open. Then the two of you shove him in, you slamming the car door behind him.

“Not even fifteen minutes,” Zsasz says; his eyes flit over your mouth, then down to the rest of you. He pulls a black handkerchief out of his pocket and offers it to you. “Color me impressed.”

“Yeah,” you reply; you take it and wipe your mouth clean as you hand the bottle off to him. “Him realizing I didn’t have pants on and kissing him immediately after shaved about eight minutes off.”

“He doesn’t have the file on him,” Zsasz replies. “He wasn’t carrying anything when I checked him.”

“So he must’ve stashed it so he could retrieve it for the meeting,” you sigh. You put one hand on Zsasz’s shoulder and raise your foot. He holds your elbow with his free hand, steadying you as you whip your heels off one by one. “We just need him to tell us where it is.” Zsasz huffs, growling through his teeth and closed lips.

“Why does Mario insist on being dramatic and tedious at every opportunity?” You shrug.

“I don’t have the answers, mate. What I know is, my feet hurt, my bits are cold, and I’d really like for my nipples to stop showing, so can I have a minute to get dressed before we figure out our next move?” Zsasz pulls out his key fob and hits the button to open the trunk, then follows you toward the back, stopping just at the gas tank and turning away from you. You pull your underwear out first and pull that on, then slip your jacket off and pull the straps of your dress down and off your arms to put your bra back on.

“Fucking peach schnapps. As if I needed another reason to dislike him,” Zsasz holds the bottle out and you take it, shoving it into the corner of the trunk.

“It’s an inside joke of sorts,” you reply, yanking the dress over your head.

“I know. I was there.” You pause in your hunt for your jeans and look up at him.

“What?” You hear a chorus of wolf whistles behind you. “Fuck off!” You shout, not even bothering to look. You hear cursing and voices getting closer. Before you even have a chance to turn around, Zsasz rounds the corner and stands in front of you, gun drawn and pointing to a group of men.

“Walk away,” he says, his voice flat and terrifying. They turn and walk back in the direction they just came from. You chuckle.

“Thanks.” Zsasz lowers his gun, turns and his eyes fix on yours, then slowly trail down your nearly naked body. He’s close to you again; he looks like he wants to slam his trunk closed and fuck you on top of it (and you have half [perhaps ⅔, 9/10ths at least] a mind to initiate it), but he just turns back around. You let out a gentle exhale.

“Hurry up. You look cold and we’re on a tight schedule.”

“What do you mean you were there?” You say, a moment later, as you pull your jeans on.

“I mean I was there,” he replies. “Mario went to Lancaster for a year and a half—”

“And then transferred to Gotham Prep, I remember _that_ , at least. He invited some of his old classmates that night. Were you friends?”

“I was a friend of a friend. We were all on top of the Gotham Prep administration building talking about the circus, and someone brought up the Flying Graysons. And some girl, Cici—” 

“Iker?” He nods.

“She said that she thought it looked fake. And you said it wasn’t, and the two of you went back and forth, but then she bet you that you couldn’t pull it off—”

“So I necked a third of the peach schnapps bottle, had Mario and Jacob Newellen hook up a line from the administration building to the class building and walked across it, just to prove I could. Shit. I can’t believe I don’t remember you.”

“To be fair, you were pretty drunk. You even kissed me.”

“I fucking _what_?” Zsasz peeks over his shoulder and smirks a little.

“Put your sweater on, angel. People are staring.” You dig out your sweater.

“What the fuck do you mean I kissed you?”

“I mean that you were drunker than anyone I’d ever seen up until that point, and Mario and every other Gotham Prep kid there were also drunk as shit, and apparently you’d hooked up with a girl from Lancaster the weekend before, and all of the guys in attendance were in awe and Chris, the guy who invited me with him, was convinced that you were a lesbian. Is any of this ringing a bell?” You shake your head, riveted. Victor lets out a chuckle.

“Mario was trying to goad you into kissing him. To prove you also liked men. And…you smirked, walked straight past him, came to me and kissed me.” You realize your mouth is hanging open, and you close it, shaking your head. For the sake of your pride, you don’t want to believe it, but considering how wild you were in high school, and considering he knew exactly what happened on the roof when only a select group of people know the full details is what convinces you.

Holy shit. You kissed Victor Zsasz when you were both in high school.

“Well uh,” you say, as your sweater drops over your head. “How was I?”

“Pretty good,” he replies, “I had nothing to measure you against, but hindsight? You were handsy.”

“Shit, oh my God,” you let out a laugh. “I’m so sorry.”

“No, it was…okay,” he replies. “You were just…unexpectedly enthusiastic. I liked it.”

“I aim to please,” you reply. “Why didn’t you mention this before now? At all?” He shrugs.

“Wasn’t relevant until now.”

“You could have at least mentioned it,” you say.

“When?” Zsasz scoffs. “After I strip searched you or before I showed up with a bullet wound?”

“Touche. You can turn around now.” He does. You sit on the edge of the trunk to yank your socks on. “So there’s two bodyguards in the club, and based on how many glasses Mario had sitting, we maybe have about 15 minutes before we get some Ausiello heavy hitters down here asking where he and his magic death file are. How are we gonna get him to talk?”

“I’d opt for a nice beating, but Falcone said gentle, so, what do you have in mind?”

“Fucking really,” you say, your voice flat, sliding your feet into your boots. “You do this for a living and that’s all you’ve got?”

“Point of order,” Zsasz raises his left hand, pointer finger. “I _kill_ people for a living. This retrieval and babysitting detail would be below my pay grade if it were for anyone but Carmine.” You roll your eyes as you reattach the holsters and weapons. Then your jacket. You close the trunk.

“So you’re saying you have no plan?” You say, crossing your arms. He mirrors you.

“I _do_ have one. It’s just been overruled.”

“Sod it,” you sigh; you step back onto the curb and yank the backseat door open, then crouch and smile. Zsasz joins you soon after, sighing, his arms crossed over his chest still. Mario looks fucking pissed. _Yep. Definitely not attracted to me anymore,_ you think. _Thank fuck._ “Hiya. Sorry about the deception, but I figured if I told you I was here from your dad, you wouldn’t listen.”

Listen Wayne,” he fires back, glaring. You sigh.

“Now, Mario—”

“ _No_ ,” he snarls. “I know what you’re going to say. Because you have no options. Vic isn’t gonna hit me, so you’re gonna try to coerce me. No fucking way. Just please let me leave and—” You shake your head.

“Actually you don’t. Because what I was going to say is this. Maroni’s men know you took those documents. They’ve pretty much declared open season on your ass. And that is a major problem, but really the least of them. More likely than not, you have no fucking clue what you swiped, so let me fill you in.

“Your dad was planning a takeover of the mob scene in Metropolis, and his first bulletpoint, and every other following bulletpoint is blow the Ausiello syndicate to hell and back. Considering you’re now trying to sell that file to that self same syndicate in, what I’m assuming, an awful and absurd attempt to get your dad out of the game is, to say the very fucking least, concerning. Because it’ll definitely get your dad out of the game, but it’ll be less quiet retirement at the end of _Shawshank Redemption_ and more ending of _Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid_.

“So if we leave you to your own devices, here’s what’s gonna happen. One, that file that you brought to the Ausiellos, like a fucking idiot, will end up in their hands, and they will probably, more likely than not, kill you and definitely, with absolute certainty, kill your father. Or two, Maroni will hunt you down before the Ausiellos do, and not only will they take all that shit, and use it, but they’ll _definitely_ kill you. Right before they destroy your father and then kill him. 

“So here are your real options. Either you take us where you hid it and ride your ass back to Gotham with us, or we leave you here for either of those options to find you, and you probably die, knowing that you signed you father’s death warrant along with your own. Now I know for a fact that despite all your bullshit, you love him, and you especially love living, so the right answer is obvious.” Mario’s glare transforms as you speak, from anger, to alarm, to genuine fear, to worry, and back to alarm. He’s worrying his lip by the time you finish. His eyes cut over to Zsasz. You don’t have to look at him to know that he’s staring at you, just behind your right shoulder. He clears his throat then.

“You heard her, Calvi.” Mario’s eyes widen, just a little, his lips twisting to form words, words that never come. You wait, your arms crossed, silent; waiting for him to finally come to the foregone conclusion.

Then, finally, Mario sighs, slouching against the backseat.

“Fine. Fuck it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mario Calvi-Falcone, nee Morrison is back on his bullshit, and so am I!
> 
> School is starting for me next month, so I'm gonna be super busy, but since I have a routine set up, I'm gonna try to get on a regular posting schedule!
> 
> This is such a slow burn, I'm so glad y'all are into it! Ayyyyye!


	8. Bad Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The filter on your brain has not rebooted yet, so you say, without thinking, “Fuck, now.” It hangs in the air between the two of you; the silence presses between you long enough that you almost wonder if you didn’t say it out loud. Zsasz’s brows are high, as if he can’t believe you said it either. But then…  
>  He leans forward, slow, until you’re sharing breath. Close enough for your lips to just barely brush, that your noses are touching but then he stops, eyes half lidded.  
>  Waiting for you to close the gap.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Title: "Bad Man" by Missy Elliott feat. Vybz Kartel & M.I.A.

11:22 pm

Metropolis stresses you out. A lot. Not only is it aggressively cleaner and brighter than Gotham, there’s fewer people around at night, which, ironically, sets you on edge. The appealing thing about Gotham, at least, is that it’s easy to see who wants to hurt you and why. Metropolis, on the other hand, is a Pollyanna-style nightmare. You wonder, as Zsasz pulls up to the posh flats on Reeve Street, what the MPD spends it’s time doing, aside from rescuing cats from trees and cleaning up accidental litter.

Getting into the building is going to be a breeze. You know that when Zsasz parks outside it in the back and you both get out. There isn’t even a security gate blocking the door. You scoff.

“How the fuck do people survive in Metropolis,” you muse, as Zsasz joins you.

“Probably has something to do with the not being Gotham, at a guess.” You roll your eyes.

“Clever deduction. Where do we start?” Zsasz stares up at the six story building, his eyes tracking over the windows and balconies. He pulls the backseat door open.

“Mario?” The man in question pokes his head out, huffing, then opens his mouth. You can see the attitude coming before he even forms a syllable.

Zsasz cuts him off as he jabs his thumb in your direction. “ _I_ may not be able to hurt you, but considering how you were trying to shove your fingers into _her_ not even 15 minutes ago, I’m sure she won’t have any objections to doing it. Answer the question.” 

Mario closes his mouth, then huffs again. “Top floor. Penthouse. Under the sink.” Zsasz pushes the door to shut it. You stop him.

“You realize that if we leave him here by himself he’ll probably try to escape.”

“Number one, he’s not that fucking stupid—”

“I’m tempted to be that fucking stupid,” Mario interrupts. Zsasz rolls his eyes, but continues on.

“Number two, w _e’re_ not leaving him alone,” he says, pushing the door closed. “I’m leaving _you_ with him while I check the lobby.”

“No you’re not,” you blurt out. Zsasz stares at you, his eyes narrowing.

“This is not negotiable, angel.” You meet his gaze, then scoff, pull the door open and yank Mario out by his collar. He stumbles and finds his footing as you slam it closed, then march him across the street toward the building.

“Let’s get moving,” you look over your shoulder at him; Zsasz has this look of utter, unbelievable indignation on his face, as if you’re the first person in history to say fuck no to him _twice_ and _live_. “Or would you rather wait for one of the _two_ mobs currently hot on our asses to join the party?” Zsasz pulls his gun, and you follow suit as you both lay a hand on Mario’s shoulder and walk into the building.

The lobby is gorgeous, massive, covered in red and black marble. The concierge desk is empty, which makes you stop and let go of Mario’s shoulder. Zsasz stops too and looks over at you.

“What is it?” You gesture to the desk.

“That seem normal to you?” Mario turns to see and shrugs.

“Oh. Everyone in the building is on vacation. So they sent the concierge on one too.” You snort.

“This city is a fucking nightmare,” you murmur.

“They’d say the same about Gotham,” Mario mutters. He begins to move toward the elevator but you both grab him by the back of his shirt. Zsasz releases him and goes around to the security desk to check the tapes. He pulls out two mini disks and slides them into the inner pocket of his jacket.

The three of you quietly slip through the door and into elevator. Zsasz punches the top floor button and it roars to life. You settle against the back wall as it begins to rise.

“Why are you doing this?” You turn to look at Mario, then turn back to the elevator panel.

“Does it matter?”

“It does. _He_ ,” Mario jerks his head at Zsasz, “makes sense here. _You_ don’t. Well, as far as why you would _want_ to be here. _Why_ you’re here is because my dad knows I was into you in high school.”

“Did you doodle my name on your notebooks?” You shoot back dryly. Mario smiles, briefly.

“Almost. It’d be obvious to anyone who knew me that the one way to lure me back would be you. But I’m asking. Why are you doing this?” You huff.

“Because your dad cares enough about you to call in a favor from me, you silly cunt.” Mario pulls a face and you glare, your gaze sharp. “Honestly, the sooner you give up this rebellious bullshit, the better off you’ll be. It stopped being cute in senior year, Mario.”

“That’s easy for you to say,” he fires back. “Your parents are perfect. Always have been.” You see red, briefly. For a split second, you imagine wringing Mario’s neck. It’d be so…satisfying right now.

“My parents are _dead_ ,” you snap. “And even when they were alive, they weren’t perfect, by any fucking stretch of the imagination. But you know what they have in common with yours? They loved me.

“Do you know what I’d do to have my parents back, even for a second? I’d kill you, Zsasz, and even your father. And you, you with your _living_ father, who loves you, who adores you so much that he’s patient and kind about your bullshit, and _desperate_ enough to have you back even after, what, ten fucking years of your constant, unbelievably lame disrespect, to call in a favor from a woman he barely knows, you are perfectly willing to hurt him and break his heart. So here’s a better fucking question, Mario. Why the _fuck_ are _you_ doing this?” Mario glares at you, but says nothing. You can see Zsasz gently smirking in the metal in front of you. Mario can too.

“Fuck you,” Mario snaps. “You’re basically the son he wanted.” For the first time, in all the days you’ve known him, Zsasz’s veneer cracks. He turns to look at Mario, and his eyes are consumed by sharp, overhwelming anger. Mario takes a step back. Your heartbeat spikes. Zsasz closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. When he opens them again, his expression is placid, almost amused. His gaze cuts over to you.

“You can stand down, angel, I’m not gonna hurt him or you.” You realize then that your right hand went to the knife concealed underneath your jacket. You do as he says. He turns to face Mario, his eyes fixed on his face. Mario squirms, uncomfortably. “I’m doing my job, Calvi. I’ve been doing my job for more than a few years. Whatever you seem to think is wrong with your relationship with your father has been going on long before I even fucking showed up, and everyone here, mostly due to you, knows that. You can hate me if you want, I don’t care. But you’re not going to pretend that it’s my fault when obviously,” he gestures to you, then, his extended fingers nearly touching your cheek, “history and the impartial witness said it isn’t.”

“I’m not impartial.” Zsasz looks over at you.

“You’re not too fond of me and Mario annoys you. The only person you like out of everyone is Carmine. That’s impartial.”

“Then I’m not impartial. Because that’s not true.” Zsasz’s head tilts to look at you. You can see the question marks but before he gets the chance to ask, the elevator dings. You nudge Mario out and beckon to Zsasz to follow. He’s staring at you, you can feel it, his eyes going over your retreating back as you send Mario ahead of you.

“Hm.” Your eyes narrow as the two of you follow Mario down the hall.

“What?” You reply. Zsasz’s eyes narrow, mirroring yours. “Come on, asshole. You do that when you’re thinking something. Say it.”

“You already know what I’m thinking, angel.”

“I’m mostly thinking why it doesn’t annoy me more when you call me those stupid petnames.” Zsasz smiles.

“Because you like them.”

“Clearly you don’t know me as well as I know you, Z,” you reply. Zsasz takes two big steps forward and moves in front of you.

“You don’t know anything about me, Wayne.”

“Point of order,” you reply, raising your pointer finger. “I don’t know _a lot_ about you. That’s very different from not knowing _anything_.” Zsasz tilts his head as he looks at you.

“It’s happening again,” he says.

“What?”

“I want to kiss you.” _Oh._

“Oh.”

“I suppose it goes without saying that your earlier answer still stands,” he murmurs. You realize your mouth is hanging slightly ajar and you close it, immediately, feeling your face warm as he looks at you. Zsasz steps forward; the heat in your body that you felt earlier in the car returns with a vengeance. His expression is blank, but his eyes are glittering, hungry again. You bite your bottom lip and Zsasz’s eyes flicker down to your lips, then lower. You feel it; he’s imagining you in that dress, remembering what you looked like out of it.

“This isn’t the time for that,” you reply, after a moment. His eyes are back on yours; he opens his mouth to speak.

“If you’re worried about me, I can wait!” Mario calls from down the hall. Your eyes go wide and you turn, walking quickly toward him.

“I’m impressed you didn’t run,” you reply as you stop in front of the door. Mario nods over your shoulder.

“He’d hunt me down,” Mario replies. “Like a bloodhound.”

“No need to be unkind,” Zsasz replies. He’s calm again; when he looks at you, his gaze is placid. “You’re a wolfhound at worst.”

“Boys, you’re both pretty.” You look at Mario, expectant. “Well? Key?” Mario scoffs and stares between you and Zsasz.

“I left the key in my car,” he says. “Not like I needed it while I was sitting in a bar.” You sigh.

“Victor,” you say, your eyes still on Mario.

“Yes, angel?” You’re a bit baffled, you have to admit; normally you hate petnames, with a fire and brimstone passion, but when Zsasz uses them, maybe….just maybe…they annoy you _slightly_ less than everyone else. Maybe you’re just growing; maybe the little things like that don’t annoy you anymore.

“Do you have a lockpicking toolkit by any chance?” Zsasz unbuttons his jacket and reaches into his breast pocket, slipping it into your palm. The leather is still warm; you kneel in front of the door and in a few moments, you slip the last tumbler and the knob twists open in your hands. Zsasz whistles.

“I’m pretty sure I just fell in love with you, Wayne.”

“Don’t start writing your vows just yet,” you reply, rolling your eyes.

“Oh don’t worry,” he looks over at Mario. “I’m getting in line.”

You rise to your feet and push the door open.  
The apartment is spacious, beautiful, stained wood floors as far as the eye can see, opening into the floor to ceiling windows. The furniture, from what you can tell, is tasteful; just subtle enough to call attention away from the fact that it’s all absurdly expensive.

Zsasz motions for you to wait, and you obey, holding Mario’s shoulder and your gun as he stalks around the shadowy penthouse, only the glint of his gun and his eyes visible in the gloom. It finally hits you, finally sinks in, really _resonates_ , when he returns to the door, long and lean and confident, his form cloaked in dark shadows, gun clutched in his hand, and you feel heat pool low in your body.

Fucking _hell_ , _no one_ should look _that hot_ with a gun. Not even _you_. Fuck. He is fine, and you _really_ wanna fuck. _Goddamnit_. Why, for the love of _fuck_ , did you think you could suppress it?

This was a mistake, you think. You shouldn’t have done this. You should have just…what, left Madison to fend for herself? Quit your job after Zsasz showed up? Let him bleed out on your floor? Said no to Carmine fucking Falcone?

You’re in it now, you realize. No amount of replaying the odds in hopes of a better outcome will change your situation right now.

And really, if this is your view while your life goes to hell, Zsasz standing there looking so dangerously intensely fine, then really, isn’t it a little worth it?

“There’s three bathrooms and a kitchen,” Zsasz says. He beckons for the two of you to enter the penthouse and he shuts the door and turns to Mario. “Which sink?” Mario sighs.

“Master bathroom.” Zsasz starts in that direction. Mario walks into the cavernous living room, over to the globe bar, and flips it open. He prepares himself a drink and flops onto the couch. You survey the room in lieu of something better to do. You spy a back door, and, curious, wander over and open it. A second hallway leads toward a smaller elevator and a flight of stairs. You huff.

“How very _High-Rise_ ,” you deadpan, as you shut the door and lock it back. “I hope we don’t find a dead dog in a pool downstairs.”

“Remember Jack de Lanza?” Mario says suddenly. You nod as you turn to look at him, legs splayed out in front of him, body angled slightly away from you. Jack de Lanza, another annoying rich white guy from high school who you knocked back several times. “He married Cici Iker last year? They bought this place a couple weeks ago. He’s let me borrow it until they’re back from vacation next week.” You sigh.

“JDL was always a generous one,” you reply. Mario lets out a chuckle.

“You know he had an unbelievable crush on you too.”

“Did he now,” you drawl, wandering over to the mirror above the mantlepiece.

“I think it’d be easier to make a list of who didn’t have a crush on you back in the day,” Mario sighs. “Especially once everyone found out about you and Kate.”

“Nice to know that my sexuality was the first foray into fetishization for all of you,” you reply. Mario hisses.

“Rip out my fucking gizzards, why don’t you?” He mutters.

“I’ve already done that. Or would you rather I launch into another lecture about your dad?” You reply. Mario shifts in his seat; the two of you fall silent as Zsasz reenters, holding a thick manila envelope. You turn from the window, from the gorgeous view of Metropolis to look at him.

“Is it all there?” Zsasz nods and you start toward the door.

“Well, time to get home, Calvi,” you say.

“Sorry, doll.” You stop. Nope. Petnames _definitely_ still annoy you. “I’m not going anywhere.” You turn, glaring at him. Mario is still sitting, unmoved, on the couch, nursing his whiskey.

“What?”

“You heard me. I’m not going anywhere, doll.” Twice. Fucking twice he says it.

“Alright,” you pivot to fully look at him and glare harder, holding your hands up and open. “Number one, don’t fucking call me doll if you like all your teeth where they currently are. Number two, what the fuck do you mean you’re not leaving?”

“I mean, it’s almost 11 pm, it’s too late to travel, I’m tired, and you’ve removed the biggest element of danger. Why should I leave when I have nothing to be stolen from me, nothing for them to threaten me with?” You sigh.

“Mario. I have a pear tart waiting for me at home. Now, if you’re gonna insist on coming between me and my pear tart, I will hurt you, and then I will drag you out of this penthouse by your hair.” Mario looks over his shoulder at Zsasz, then at you, smirking.

“Unlikely, but okay.” You start at him; you feel an arm go around your waist and lift you, effortlessly, off your feet and away. You start swinging your arms, but Zsasz is faster, wrapping his other arm around you and trapping them against his chest.

“Put me down!” You shout, swinging your legs. Your heel connects with Zsasz shin and he grunts, but doesn’t let you go. You pull your legs up and throw your weight back against him. He lets out a sharp hiss, but his grip still stays tight on you. “Let me go!”

“Promise you won’t swing on Mario and I will,” he says. You take a deep breath, then nod. Zsasz sets you on your feet and releases you. You round on him and glare.

“What exactly is stopping us from shoving him in the goddamn trunk?” You say.

“Mr. Falcone has expressly forbid that any harm come to you or Mario.”

“You do realize that this has undercut pretty much all of our threats now? Mario could leave and there’s nothing I can do about it because you won’t let me.”

“He’s also kind of right about traveling right now,” Zsasz mutters. You and Mario stare at him, shocked. “Relish that, because I’ll never say it again.”

“What the fuck do you mean?” You say. Zsasz holds up his phone, to show you a text.

“We’ve got a man inside the Ausiello organization. He told me in confidence that Anthony has enforcers out everywhere looking for you and Mario since you gave his people the slip. If we try to leave right now, that’s our asses mounted above his fireplace.”

“But if we stay here, that _raises_ the likelihood that they’ll bring the fight to us. There’s only a few places to look for him, and the possibilities narrow considerably if they know that he knows the people who live here.”

“If Mario or you get hurt, Falcone will kill me himself. So no. We’re not leaving. Not tonight.” You sigh.

“Fine. Not tonight.” A vision of Bruce’s disappointed face swims across your mind’s eye, and your chest tightens. You stab Zsasz in the chest with a finger. “First fucking light, mate. We better be out of here before the sun is fully awake.” He nods.

“I’m not planning on going at all, but good luck to the two of you,” Mario calls.

You turn to look at him, glaring.

“Do you plan to fucking live here until Maroni or Ausiello or your dad comes to drag you out himself?” Mario’s eyebrows furrow and you sigh. Then sit on the coffee table in front of him. “What do you want, Mario? Seriously?” Mario stares at you.

“What?”

“You heard me. Sure, you had some shit to deal with in high school, but as far as I can tell, you got it together after. You’re pre fucking med. You’re doing really well right now, and suddenly you decide to drop all your shit and come back to Gotham to wreck your father’s life. Why are you doing this?” Mario’s eyes dance over you, then briefly flicker to Zsasz. You turn to look at him.

“Leave the file and go take a walk.” Zsasz squints at you. You stand and walk over to him, grabbing his arm and steering him and yourself into the hall leading to the rest of the apartment, out of Mario’s sightline. “Mate, come on. You don’t wanna be here any more than I do and he’s not gonna talk to me if you’re standing here hovering, like the All Father’s own watchdog. Get.” Zsasz sighs.

“You tried to deck him not even thirty seconds ago. How do I know you’ll play nice?” Your eyes narrow.

“Excuse me?”

“Promise you’ll be good and I will.” You glare.

“Don’t speak to me like I’m a child. Especially considering you’ve been looking at me like you wanna screw the life out of me all night.” Victor folds his arms across his chest and leans toward you.

“Seems like the feeling is mutual to me, angel,” he replies, the corner of his mouth quirking up. You shut your eyes, briefly, willing yourself into calm.

“You are wasting time and I am tired, so please. Indulge me and leave. Give me 15 minutes with him.” Zsasz doesn’t move. You sigh, louder. “I promise I won’t hurt Mario.” Zsasz holds the file out to you.

“All you had to say, angel. Though I notice you didn’t deny any of it.” When you grasp it, he yanks it to himself, sharply, pulling you along with it. Your eyes are steady on his as he speaks. “Don’t make me regret doing this.” He releases the file and slips past you, toward the exit.

“I’m checking the security office, the private exit, and the surveillance tapes on the block around us.” He pauses and turns to look at the two of you, pointing at you. “Play nice, you two.” Mario shakes his head as he slips out.

“God, he’s so fucking annoying,” he sighs. You saunter over to him, brandishing the file in your hands.

“You know what I’m thinking?” You say, resuming your spot on the coffee table in front of him. “I’m thinking that this…is more of a liability than an asset. This puts a bullseye right in the middle of your back and one in the middle of your father’s forehead. So why do you have it?” Mario looks up at you then, and you can see the striking resemblance to Carmine there, the nobility in the arch of his brows, the set of his strong jaw, the shape of his clear brown eyes. Then he stands, walking back over to the globe, refills his drink. Fixes a second one, hands it to you as he walks back over.

“My mom died when I was 10,” he says, slowly nursing his drink. “My dad never wants to talk about it. It messed me up.”

“I noticed. Along with every other person at school,” you add. Mario smiles back a bit at that.

“Really? I thought I was so subtle,” he replies.

“The drinking on campus and the parties were a dead giveaway.”

“I figured. Which is why I got it together in senior year. I was seeing a therapist and shit. But I couldn’t…when the anniversary of my mom’s death came around, I’d always go a little crazy. I couldn’t deal with it. So this year I…”

“You?” You prompt, egging him on. Mario sighs, sharp.

“Fuck, this is so stupid.”

“Come on, Mario,” you say. “Just tell me.” He sighs again, loudly.

“I decided that I wanted to finally fucking figure out what happened, and I was gonna talk to my dad about it. But he’s never talked about it, because he’s never wanted to lie to me. But that had to mean that he had something to do with it, right? And he just never told me. That’s why he wanted to keep me away from all this. SoI thought, if he had the answers, and he were trying to hide them from me for whatever reason, they’d be in his office. So I tossed his office, and I didn’t find anything, and I got angry. So I broke into his safe, and I took that,” he said, gesturing to the file in your hand. “I thought they might be in there. Or even if they weren’t…maybe he’d know what it would feel like to miss something vital.” Your hackles rise a little at that; after all, Carmine lost a wife when Mario lost a mother, but you let it slide for now.

“Did you find anything? Did he know?” Mario shakes his head. “So you tossed his office and stole this and ran away…for nothing?”

“I just don’t want to be his fuck son anymore, you know? The condolences and the looks and everything were too much. I didn’t want it and he obviously didn’t want it so I ran. And I thought, maybe…maybe if I could find a way to make him quit…we’d be okay.” You stare at him, your disbelief rising with every moment.

“Mario,” you say. “Number one, Carmine adores you. He raves about you whenever he gets the opportunity. Every single time he’s at some high society nonsense, if someone gets him started on you, he never bloody stops. He loves you more than anything. It radiates off him. You’re his fucking pride and joy for fuck’s sake. If you’re so concerned about what happened to your mum, and you fucking should be, you should just ask him. Because, obviously, sitting on it and not dealing with how the uncertainty makes you feel is fucking eating your up inside. And considering how much he loves you, he’ll probably tell you the truth with little to no begging.

“Number two, your dad is who he is. He’s Don Carmine fucking Falcone. Accepting that doesn’t have to mean condoning it, especially since he wants you to have a different life from his. The thing that’s stopping you from having a having a good relationship with your dad isn’t his job; it’s your resentment, and your sadness. So how about you just cut the shit, once and for fucking all, and goddamn _talk to him_?”

“You still have all the answers, huh,” he says, after a long moment of silence. You roll your eyes.

“No. I just have the gift of being objective about the shit you’re dealing with. I’m sure if I spilled my guts about my problems you’d have the answers too.”

“Go for it then, doll,” Mario replies, smirking. “I’m all ears.” You can’t keep it in anymore.

“1. Mind your business. 2. Call me doll again, and I’ll rip your dick off and turn it into one.” 

“Nice to know that mean streak is still there, Elliot. No wonder he likes you.”

“I’m not so crass that I’d let your dad see—”

“I’m not talking about my dad.” Mario’s eyebrows shoot up as he looks at you and you sigh, putting the unused drink down and rising from the coffee table.

“Okay, whatever sort of nonsense you have roiling around in your ridiculous brain needs to stay in there.”

“I’m _just saying_ that Vict—”

“Dear God, dear Lord, please for fuck’s sake don’t play matchmaker with me right now. I don’t have the fucking energy for it.” Mario holds up his hands in supplication, grinning.

“Fair enough.” He stands and walks into the kitchen. “I’m starving. I’m gonna eat, and then I’m going to bed. We can start back to Gotham after we’ve all had some sleep.”

“Er, what part of fresh pear tart don’t you seem to understand Mario? We’re leaving tonight.”

“I’ve already agreed to come back with you, and Victor is probably right about us staying in. Don’t ever tell him I said that, and don’t push your luck.” He opens the fridge, pulls out a peach and a bowl of grapes, and saunters past you toward the back. “The two of you can have the guest bedroom,” he calls over his shoulder. You roll your eyes.

“How fucking benevolent,” you mutter under your breath, going to the kitchen to look for food.

 

12:13 am

When you look up from the frying pan on the stove, Zsasz is entering the kitchen, his jacket in one hand, collar unbuttoned, three more mini cds and his gloves in the other. He looks strangely vulnerable without his jacket on. You can’t decide if you like it or not, so you ignore the thought before you worry about it too long. He looks up at you and the two mugs sitting on the counter next to you.

“Is he asleep?” You nod, nudging one toward him and tapping the cabinet next to you.

“They’ve got about a million teas, and a hundred thousand of them are black. Take your pick.” Zsasz drops the stuff on the island next to the plate of bacon you whipped up, and moves over to you and pulls the drawer open. His fingers gently trail down the variety of selections. You can almost feel them on your skin, the way he brushes them across the bright packaging. He plucks one out of a box and drops it into the waiting mug, then leans against the island opposite you, mirroring your crossed arms. His sleeves are rolled up. Shit.

“He’s coming back with us to Gotham,” you say. “I managed to convince him to leave in the morning.”

“Nice maneuvering,” he replies. “Mario’s a hard and annoying nut to crack. But you know that already.”

“Thanks,” you reply. “Did you update Falcone?” You venture. He nods at this. The kettle starts screaming.

“He’s very grateful. There’s talk of multiple favors and gifts being bestowed upon you.” You smile a little at that, picking the kettle up off the fire, pouring water into his cup, then yours. You fix up your cup, offering him the coffee creamer. He takes it.

“He could settle for not telling Thomas anything about this and I’d be fine with that. The file is on the coffee table.” He leans back against the counter, and his eyes just…trace over you again.

“Did he say why he took it?” You nod, slowly sipping your hot tea. Your body unwinds, gently; you turn back toward the frying pan. Zsasz takes the hint and leans against the counter next to you.

“What are you making?” You look up from your grilled cheese cooking on the stovetop. “It smells good.”

“Why are there six different types of cheeses in this fridge?” you ask, hypothetically, shifting from one foot to the other. You can feel the heat from his body next to you. His very strong, very capable body. _Fuck_.

“Because someone, presumably Cici Iker, would want to use them to make grilled cheese,” he replies. You can feel his eyes tracing over your body, his hands braced against the counter next to you, arm muscles bulging, clusters of tally mark scars scattered along his lean, muscular forearms.

“D’you want one?” You manage.

“Sure.” You prep two more slices of bread and gesture to the cheeses.

“You look like a tomato grilled cheese man,” you say.

“Guilty.”

“Bacon?”

“Please.” You feel a light touch against the center of your back as Zsasz walks around you to the cheeses on the counter,the gentle touch making a shiver rattle down your spine. He reaches over your arm to dress his sandwich.

“How are you holding up?” You murmur. You nod down at his hip when he gives you a confused look. He shrugs.

“I’m fine.” You stare at him, debating.

“I felt you flinch when I threw my weight back on you.”

“I’m fine, Wayne.” You glare, a little.

“Lift up your shirt,” you say. Zsasz locks eyes with you.

“You’re not gonna let this go, are you?” You purse your lips, your eyebrows shooting up. He sighs, then untucks his shirt and lifts it. You bite your bottom lip, holding back a sharp, choked, gasp. Zsasz’s torso is a lean, muscular, abstract painting of broad scars, slashing, jagged, long and short. It’s fascinating, and beautiful, in the most morbid way possible. You get caught up, tracing a broad stripe of scar tissue down to his side until your eyes find the bullet wound you dressed.

“Like what you see?” The corner of his mouth quirks up as you meet his eyes again. You clear your throat and lean over, avoiding his eyes.

“I just…I didn’t notice all these…scars,” you manage, focusing on your handiwork. “I’m assuming you didn’t do all these.”

“You like my scars, angel?” Your eyes dart up to meet his.

“Don’t be weird,” you shoot back. You kneel, reaching to touch, then stop, and look up at him. “Do you mind if I…?”

“I’m not standing here holding up my shirt for my health,” he replies. “Well…”

“Oh my God,” you sigh, “Just give me consent or don’t.”

“Go ahead,” he murmurs. You press your hand around the skin, gradually applying pressure. Zsasz doesn’t even flinch, doesn’t even give an involuntary indication that he’s in pain. The skin is a little puckered, still raw looking, but mostly healed.

“Turn around.” Zsasz obeys, turning. You pull in a sharp breath. It’s clear, based on the positioning of some of these scars, that he’s been stabbed, multiple times. Your hands trace over them, lightly.

“Not that this isn’t flattering, or tickle inducing, but aren’t you supposed to be checking something back there?” Fuck, you completely forgot what you were doing.

“Getting there,” you reply, finally focusing on the exit wound. It’s a little redder, more scarred looking than the front, most likely because it’s harder for him to reach to maintain. Nevertheless, it looks well on the mend, good enough that his range of motion should be close to back to normal. “Looks like it’s healing normally. Can you stretch?”

“Yes,” Zsasz nods and he — disappointingly, you think, but quickly push that thought away — lets his shirt drop, turning around and tucking it back in as you rise from your crouch. “Thank you.”

“Of course,” you reply. Zsasz is close to you now, close enough that you can still smell the faint remnants of pine on him. You clear your throat and turn back to the stove, quickly turning the fire lower and flipping your sandwich onto a plate.

“Um,” you try to marshal your thoughts. “Do you wanna pass me that plate of tomatoes?” You feel him moving behind you, then the tomatoes appear at your left elbow, perched on the tile. His palms press against the counter, on either side of you; he’s standing behind you, close to you. “Thanks.”

“Of course, angel,” he breathes. You turn your head to look at him; his eyes are on yours, tracing over your face, flicker down to your mouth. You turn in place, to face him, your hands shaking as you meet his gaze. He has that glint in his eyes again, hungry, desirous. You bite your bottom lip as your gaze moves to his, down to his bare collarbone. He’s warm as he presses closer to you, warm and solid. You want to throw your arms around him, draw him in, but you know you shouldn’t. Fuck, you shouldn’t. You move back a little.

Victor’s arms go around you and he pulls you hard against him. _WHEW_.

“Easy now,” his fingers slide down to your hips. “Hot stove behind you, sweetness.”

“Thanks,” you manage. Your brain has pretty much short-circuited, crashing and rebooting and crashing pretty much every time he touches you, which is every second. His hands are underneath your sweater, on your waist. He draws you toward him, walks backwards, toward the island, slowly turning in place until you’re pressed between him and another counter. God fucking _damn_ , it feels good.

“Mhm,” he sighs. His hand trails up, from under your sweater, across your side, trails across your collar, to hold your jaw, brush his thumb across your lips.

“Um?” You say. You’re holding onto the material of his shirt stretched across his back; your knees are shaky.

“Yes, sweetness?” He bites into his bottom lip, and your thoughts scatter, your eyes fixed on the lip still poking out. You want to bite it, just a little.

“I…um…”

“You…?”

The filter on your brain has not rebooted yet, so you say, without thinking, “Fuck, _now._ ” It hangs in the air between the two of you; the silence presses between you long enough that you almost wonder if you didn’t say it out loud. Zsasz’s brows are high, as if he can’t believe you said it either. But then…

He leans forward, slow, until you’re sharing breath. Close enough for your lips to just barely brush, that your noses are touching but then he stops, eyes half lidded.

Waiting for you to close the gap.

Fuck it.

Your heart begins to race as you gently, softly, touch his lips with yours.

Victor _melts_ against you, then comes alive, pressing harder against you, his hands reaching all over, gripping your thighs, your waist, his fingers running down your back. His mouth breaks away from yours; he stoops down, and suddenly you’re up, your thighs in his hands, wrapped around his waist, his mouth on your collarbone, kisses sliding across your neck to your jawline.

“Mm,” he groans, “how do you always smell so _good_?”

You let out a soft chuckle and tip his chin up, pressing a kiss to his Adam’s apple, peppering them all along his shoulders, and he groans, slowly grinding himself against you; your nails sink into his neck, raking down to his shoulders.

“Fucking hell,” you sigh, winding your hips against him. Victor hisses, bucking against you, knocking your lower back into the edge of the wooden counter. You let out a gasp and Victor’s tongue slides into your mouth, both of you panting as he holds you, licks across your bottom lip.

He raises you up to the counter and drops you on the edge of it, his thumbs sliding across your inner thigh, reaching for your waistband.

“Lift your hips, sweetness,” he groans into your mouth. You do, immediately, pushing your hips against him, making his moan resonate in your throat.

“What is that amazing smell?”

Victor lets you go, leaving you panting, in a quiet daze, your legs spread, body warm as he retreats to the oven top a split second before Mario enters, in black silk pajamas, his hair in disarray. His eyes narrow as they dart between the two of you, Victor calmly laying tomato slices on the now melted cheese, you eating bacon off the plate sitting next to you.

“We’re making grilled cheese,” you say.

“It smells like garlic bread in here,” Mario replies, slowly joining you in the kitchen. You shrug; your heart is still racing. You’re breaking pieces in half, trying to hide your shaky hands.

“I use compound butter on mine. It’s not for everyone, but I like it. Shouldn’t you be asleep, or something?”

“I just came to get rid of this bowl,” he dumps the contents into the garbage and puts it in the sink. “While I’m here…”

“You can have a grilled cheese,” you sigh. 

“Wayne?” You can still feel his heavy breaths fanning across your skin as you look up at his outstretched hand. You pick up the plate, and give it to him. He puts the plate on the counter next to his elbow. Your eyes trail over his exposed neck, his back muscles shifting underneath his shirt. You can just barely see the faint red lines running down his neck from your nails. You hop off the counter and move over to the stove before Mario can see what you’re staring at.

“Hey,” you pick up the spatula and nudge Victor out of the way. “I got this.” He shrugs and leans back against the island, where you were just sitting. You flip Victor’s grilled cheese onto a plate a minute later.

“Alright,” you say, handing the plate to him and gesturing to the ingredients on the counter. “Pick your poison, Calvi.” Mario hunches over them as you prep two more slices of bread.

“Mozzarella, tomato, maybe an artichoke pesto, and roasted garlic, if you have a minute to whip it up.” You narrow your eyes at him, then promptly shove the spatula into his chest.

“Riiiiight, so let me know how that pesto goes,” you pick up your plate and tea and walk past him and into the living room to sit on the floor between the coffee table and the couch. “I’m gonna go eat this sandwich and go to sleep.” Victor follows you, sitting his plate and cup on the corner of the table and dropping onto the long black couch.

“You offered!” Mario says, following you both out from the kitchen.

“I’m not a short order cook!” You shoot back. “And even if I was, I’m not sitting up for another 45 minutes making pesto for your fucking grilled cheese, you hipster.” Mario grumbles as he wanders back into the master bedroom and shuts the door. The two of you eat in silence; you’re examining a small laptop with a modified keyboard.

“What’s this supposed to be?” You say, nodding at the dark screen.

“Motion detector,” he says. “I hooked it up through the surveillance system. Someone breathes on the building, we’ll know.” You smile.

“Brill,” you say, as you pick up your mug and drain it. When you finish, Zsasz scoops up your dishes and his plate and carries them back into the kitchen. You’re readjusting your posture and recrossing your legs behind the table when he returns to flop down on the couch behind you. Zsasz watches you fidget and leans forward to look at you over your shoulder.

“Comfy?” He says, cheekily. You sigh, stifling your grin.

“Well I thought by now that I’d be in my bed, wearing my pajamas, reading Frankenstein and eating leftover pear tart by now, so relatively speaking, I’m not.”

Zsasz tsks, sitting up to look at you. “Are your pajamas in your overnight?” You shake your head before he even finishes the thought.

“It’s fine. I’ll make do with these. I doubt I’ll even be able to sleep tonight.” Zsasz lies back again.

“Go to sleep, angel. You need it more than I do. You certainly earned it tonight. I’ll take watch.”

“Nah. I’m already awake. Sod it. You sleep since you’ll be driving.”

“I’ve still got some tea left to drink. And worst case scenario I’ll make you drive. You sleep.” You roll your eyes, then pull the massive back cushions off the couch and sit on them, arranging them until you’ve fashioned a comfy little nest for yourself. You pull off your jacket and the knife holster, and toss them on the table. Zsasz hands you the afghan hanging behind him and you throw it across your shoulders, leaning your head back against the couch and closing your eyes.

“Can I touch your hair?” You hear Zsasz murmur after a few minutes, and you open your eyes to look at him. Fuck, you’re feeling charitable, now that you admitted...some things to yourself, so you nod.

“Sure.” You feel his hand brush through the braids spread out on the couch behind you and you relax into the cushions.

“I’m sorry.” Your eyes open again.

“For what?”

“For what I said in the car. On the way to Metropolis. It was…I could tell I hurt you.” Your eyes go a little wide. Did he just _apologize_? More than _once_ in a _day_? For hurting your _feelings_?You’re getting the sense that this isn’t something he’s accustomed to doing; his tone is a little stiff, formal. You bite your bottom lip, trying to find the best response.

“…thank you,” you reply, after a minute or two. You both fall silent. Zsasz’s fingers wind deeper into your hair, and you smile, slipping into sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Issa Twofer chapter today! Next one has notes! Enjoy >:)


	9. I Know Places

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You look like you’re feeling real good, sweetness,” he says. And you know you should stifle it, you should just ignore the impulse and shoot a snarky comeback at him, but your spirits are high, and your adrenaline is higher so you think fuck it, reach over, and grab his thigh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Title: "I Know Places" by Lykke Li

1:43 am

You’re groggy. Really fucking groggy. Based on how groggy you are, you know it’s only been a few hours. You open your eyes, blinking slowly.

You’ve turned onto your side in your sleep, facing toward Zsasz. He’s watching you, an arm propped behind his head, his other hand still in your hair; you watch him back. His eyes are beautiful in the dark, his lips pretty and soft, the angle of his nose sharp in the gloom, his jaw begging for you to run your fingers across it, to grip it and pull him down to your mouth.

You sit up, then. And look at him. His fingers wind through your hair, brushing the back of your neck and you shiver gently at the contact.

“Vic,” you start.

_BZZZZZZZZ_. You both freeze, turning to look at the screen on the table. The black and white screen is split. On the screen, a groups of men in suits are marching down a multiple halls.

The two of you scramble to your feet, you throwing your knife holster back on, Zsasz gathering the file in his hands.

“How many did you count?” You say, fastening it over your shoulder. Zsasz starts toward the back. 

“I counted 10,” he says over his shoulder. “You?” You make your way toward the foyer, drawing your gun.

“15. Let’s give them a proper welcome,” you say, aiming.

Fifteen smooth, nerve-wrecking seconds go by before the front door shatters under a haze of gunfire. You duck away, moving away from the hall, You wait, patient, your heart pounding in your ears, a chorus of _ohshitohshitohshit_ running in your brain. You see a massive shadow on the floor and your mind clears, immediately, your breath slowing.

When you reach out and clock the first one on the nose, jamming your gun into his shoulder and firing, you’re in a zen state, your mind stretching toward the next eight steps as you watch your assailants, just like she taught you to. Enforcers, professionals, all armed, but not mercenaries, not soldiers, just mob guys in expensive suits. Advantage: yours and Zsasz’s.

The next one has a long reach; you back into the living room, ducking and shoving his arms away from you as you go. You grab his elbow, hit him in the jaw with the butt of your gun and fire it into his kneecap. He drops and you duck, again, away from the next assailant, who swings on you with a crowbar. The heel of your bootconnects with the side of his face and you whip the crowbar out of his hands, hitting him and the first guy, then throwing it at the next one. It misses; he rushes toward you. A shot rings out. You turn to look as Zsasz marches in, a murderous look in his eyes. The two of you against all of them?

It hardly seems fair.

 

When Victor figured that you fought like you were ready to die and take your opponents down with you, he wasn’t expecting to be so…accurate in his assessment. You’re a marvel, whirling, hitting, stabbing, diving, your body sliding into and out of focus, out of grip, finding spaces to shove itself into, taking hits and doling them out twice as hard, your hands a blur, your borrowed Bowie knife coated with blood, your face speckled with it, a bruise forming underneath one of your pretty brown eyes. Oh no. Who did that? That will not do.

Zsasz breaks away from a combatant and moves toward you, whipping a small sharp knife out of his jacket. Your bruise has a square shaped dent underneath it. He grabs the neck of the gangster with the square signet ring and stabs him in the base of his skull, twisting it viciously as he yanks it out. He feels a hand on his shoulder and turns to see you, raising your knife and stabbing his abandoned combatant in the diaphragm, then kicking him in the chest, sending him howling to the ground, just as he rises to shoot Zsasz. You pull him toward you and turn your body, slingshotting him toward the other side of the room, back in the direction you just came from.

“Watch your six, not my twelve,” you yell; you bring your knee up and dig into a man’s throat with it, then bring your elbow down on the back of his skull. _Fuck_. Zsasz is insanely aroused just watching you. There’s a light in your eyes he’s never seen before, a turn of your mouth that makes him want to—

You whip out your gun, point it at him and fire. Zsasz ducks; a body drops behind him half a second later. You’re glaring, which is having the opposite effect that you probably intended. _Fuck._ You’re gorgeous and furious and he’s _fucked_.

“Focus!” You yell; Victor doesn’t even have a chance to warn you before you’re on the ground, a man standing behind you, a gun in his hand.

 

Your head aches; how long have you been out? You blink back into consciousness just in time to see the barrel of a gun aimed at you. You roll out of the way a split second before it goes off and you swing your leg, hard, aiming for the backs of his knees. The man above you drops and you aim, popping him right in the arm and kneecap. The back of your neck tingles. You turn, raising your gun hand just in time to see Zsasz appear, grip, and viciously twist the neck of the man coming at you with a knife. He watches the body drop to his feet, then looks down at you.

“Sorry, angel. Got distracted,” he murmurs. He kicks the man you just shot, hard in the face, knocking him out, then holds out his hand, and you take it, rising to your feet, wiping blood spots from your face as you go. Goddamn. You weren’t prepped on this part. “This your first time actually hurting people?”

“Yeah,” you say. Zsasz pulls the black handkerchief out of his jacket again, and gently wipes the spots you missed. Your eyes lock as he slowly, tenderly clears the patch along your jawline, his thumb brushing under your bottom lip as his hand drops. His eyes flicker, down to your mouth, then back up.

“It’ll get easier. Trust me. You’ve got the knack.”

“No,” you reply; you pull a bandanna out of your jacket pocket and clean the blood off the knife. “I’ve got training. I don’t have the knack,” you sigh as you retie it around your leg.

“Listen to me, angel.” Zsasz moves close to you; his face is serious, more serious than usual. You know this because he’s staring right in your eyes, no hints of amusement on his face. But there’s also something like concern in his eyes. “I kill people for money. I’ve been doing this for years, and I’m fucking good at it. Falcone keeps me on retainer because he knows when he calls me, shit will get done. I’m that guy. By virtue of being that guy, I know a killer instinct when I see one. And you’re running from it. You’ve been running for a while. But it’s obviously what you want, so I’m gonna ask you the question you asked Mario. If you’re trying so hard to be normal, why the fuck are you doing this?” You sigh, deeper this time, then move to step past him. Zsasz steps into your path, his face still even and serious. “Answer the question.”

“We have maybe 5 minutes before more of Maroni’s men get up here with Ausiello’s people as backup. Do you wanna dig through my psyche or do you want to get out of here before we get murdered?”

“They’re not mutually exclusive,” he says; he starts down the hallway, calling for. “Time to go, Mario. Maroni’s men, by these fuck ugly suits. We have to leave right now. Grab your shit.” You swing your own jacket onto your shoulders and walk over to the front door, pulling your gun out of it’s holster as you go.

“They came from the front entrance,” he was saying. You turned to see him pushing Mario toward the back door, a small suitcase in his hands, Mario still in his pajamas, holding the file for dear life. “We’ll have to take the private stairs down.”

“How did they know we’re here?” Mario asks; you push the door open, already thinking of ways to barricade the stair door. Before Zsasz can answer, a burly man reaches forward, grabs your neck, and lifts you off the ground. Zsasz moves to draw his gun.

“Don’t move, Zsasz,” the man says. “Or she’s—” _Bang!_ The man drops, and you crumple next to his corpse, choking and gripping your gun for dear life. Zsasz is on you in a second, holding your face in his hands.

“Are you okay?” You cough, and nod, rising to your feet. The gold _A_ insignia on the body’s lapel catches your attention, for a split second. No time.

“M’fine,” you manage, rubbing your throat. “That’ll draw the rest of them. Get Mario, I’ll secure the door.” Zsasz pushes Mario back toward the private entrance. You shut the front door, and then, huffing as you go, shove the black leather couch into the foyer and wedge it between the entrance to the kitchen and the front door. You slip over to the private entrance, your eyes and gun trained on the front door. When you get there, Zsasz pulls it open, holds out a hand to stop Mario from following.

Zsasz clears the hall, then the two of you follow him into the stairwell. You make it down a floor, just past the second back door before you hear voices on the stairs. More voices than 10. You meet Zsasz’s gaze for a quick second, then retreat, kicking the back door of the fifth floor apartment open.

“Go,” you say. “I’ll keep them busy.” He hesitates, for a half second, his eyes trained on your face, before he obeys, Mario trailing behind him, and you shut the door behind them. You quickly go back up the stairs, your stomach churning with anxiety. You let out a breath, then fire three shots into the stair doors and two into the ceiling. Then you duck back into the penthouse, locking the door behind you. The men on the floor haven’t stirred.

The couch is starting to buckle, the men’s efforts redoubled after hearing your gunshots. You empty your clip into the door, then duck away as they return fire, reloading. Heavy thumping starts against the private entrance a half second later, the wood already starting to give. You start to shake. You’re gonna die in an stupid expensive, overly styled apartment in goddamn Metropolis. You disappointed your family for nothing. All for the sake of some annoying white boy who’d rather _nap_ than fuckin—shit.

You rise to your feet and sprint to the master bedroom, locking the door just as the wood cracks on the private entrance. You push the heavy dresser in front of it and look around, your mind racing. The master bed is messy. There’s a tv mounted on the wall, the balcony you remembered seeing from street level leading out there. You go straight to the tv, pulling the Bowie knife out as you go. You cut the long cord off and throw it over your shoulders.

Gunshots burst through the bedroom door. You fire back, then dive for the balcony, army crawling out and kicking the doors closed behind you. You run to the edge. You can see a bald man standing next to a black car, looking upwards. You take a deep breath, then climb over the edge, lowering yourself to the fifth floor balcony. Then the fourth.

Glass shatters above you. You reach the third.

You hear shouting above you. The second.

Gunshots. You duck away.

Below you, is a thirty foot drop to the ground. You know you’ll break something trying to make it. You take the cord from around your neck and, hands shaking, tie the plug end to the bars of the balcony. You don’t want to think about all the ways this could go wrong so you rush over, the cord in your hand, and lower yourself down, slowly. Bullets whiz past your head.One whizzes past your head and you flinch, the cord sliding between your fingers, but you hold on, tight, continue lowering yourself down.

Until another grazes your shoulder and you let out a sharp, pained yell, your grip loosening on the rest of the cord. You drop, closing your eyes, waiting for the concrete to shatter your ribs and you slam into something softer, but still solid.

Zsasz grunts as you both fall to the ground, the wind summarily knocked out of both of you. You groan, rolling off him. He’s on his feet quickly, yanks you to yours. Pulls you toward the running car, and you’re gone in seconds, your heart racing, your back and legs aching, Mario in the backseat, and a huge grin on your face.

 

2:16 am

 

Zsasz… _Victor_ is speeding down the freeway, doing 90+ miles an hour, and you’re so pumped full of adrenaline, your body is shaking. You chance a look over at him, and his eyes are fixed on the road ahead of you, his bare hands gripping the wheel tight, his breathing even and slow. He feels you looking at him, and he looks at you too, at the grin on your face, and he grins back, a chuckle rising in his throat.

“You look like you’re feeling real good, sweetness,” he says. And you know you should stifle it, you should just ignore the impulse and shoot a snarky comeback at him, but your spirits are high, and your adrenaline is higher so you think _fuck it_ , reach over, and grab his thigh. High enough that he knows exactly what you want the minute you touch him. He smirks, and reaches over, his hand landing higher, a centimeter or so away from your zipper. You chance a look over your shoulder; Mario fell asleep ten miles ago, his father’s files clutched in his arms. He hasn’t moved.

Victor’s hand starts to move on your leg, slowly, rubbing at you through the black denim. You squeeze his thigh, breathing slow as heat builds in you. You open your legs a little wider, shivering against him. He reaches up, slides his hand into your jeans, down and over your underwear, and you gasp, softly, grasping at his forearm, winding your hips as his fingers stroke your clit through your panties in slow, steady circles.

“Fuck,” you sigh, looking over at him. The speedometer is creeping over 100, his eyes are fixed on the road, his left clutching the wheel tight, his right magic as it makes you creep closer and closer to your orgasm.

Mario stirs in the backseat; Victor’s hand is gone in a milisecond, back around the wheel. Mario’s bleary eyes appear at your shoulder, to look at Victor.

“How long until we get there?”

“Twenty minutes,” he murmurs. “I just need to make sure we’re not being followed.” Mario leans back and drops back into sleep. Victor chances a look over at you and half smirks.

“I just wanna point out, sweetness,” he says grinning. “I was not the one who broke the no-touch rule.” You open your mouth, then close it. Then open it again.

“What do you want me to say?” You chuckle, half joking, mostly embarrassed. He bites his bottom lip and his hand finds his way back to your knee, strokes the inside of your leg. You shiver.

“I have a list. We’ll get there.”

“Where are we going? Gotham is still two hours away.”

“Safehouse. A legitimate safehouse. Mario will be a nightmare to deal with if we don’t all get some rest.”

You nod. “Fine with me.” Victor whistles low.

“I’m keeping you away from your pear tart, are you going to try to murder me in my sleep?”

“Nah,” you sigh, grinning at him. “I’m gonna need someone to clear the surrounding area and Mario is gonna be useless.” Victor smirks, then nudges your chin with a knuckle.

“You say the sweetest things,” he shoots back. 

 

2:34 am

 

18 minutes later, just as your eyelids begin to droop, Victor pulls up to a nondescript one floor house in the woods, Metropolis’s halo of lights just beyond the horizon. He parks and turns to nudge Mario awake.

“We’re here,” he murmurs. Mario stretches, shoves his door open, hauling his bag out with him. Victor goes to his trunk and pulls his and your overnight bag out of it, nodding toward the door as you pull your knapsack out and shut it for him.

“The key is under the mat,” he says, dropping the bags on the porch and pulling out his gun. “Check the inside?” You nod, pulling out your gun. “Three rooms, bathroom, kitchen, open floor plan, one door, six windows.” Mario rolls his eyes as he grabs the key and unlocks the door.

“This feels excessive.” You roll your eyes as you push the door wide.

“It won’t feel excessive if you wake up in the middle of the night with a gun barrel in your face. Stay here,” you say, moving into the building. The cabin is rustic and comfortable, with exposed roof beams and rough hewn tables and chairs. The living room has barely been touched. You flick the lights on as you go, turning slow in the bedroom and checking the closet. A tap sounds against the window. You turn to see Victor waving. You wave back, smiling despite yourself. What a nerd.

“You can come in now,” you yell as you come back down the hall. Mario sighs as he enters.

“Finally.” He hoists his bag onto his shoulder and saunters toward the back. “G’night!” He disappears down the hall and you hear the slam of the bedroom door.

“Because of course you just _need_ to take the bedroom,” you sigh. You turn a slow circle in the living room; there’s two massive, comfortable couches. You test the cushions with your palm, just as Victor enters with your bag in one hand and his black duffel in the other. You nod toward the hall.

“Mario, being the queen diva as usual, has commandeered the bedroom and has graciously allowed us to take the couches.” Victor scoffs, then drops his bag next to the loveseat and starts pulling the cushions off the couch.

“There’s a fold out bed in this. You take it, I’ll sleep over there.”

“No,” you reply, surprising both of you. “The bed is big enough. We can share it.” Victor smirks a little; he unfolds the pre-set bed and tosses the pillows back onto it.

“Fine with me.” You raise your hand.

“ _No_. We’re not doing any of that. We’re both sore and beat up. We need to sleep.” Victor nods, his smirk still set in place as he straightens up and sticks his hands in his pockets.

“Alright, angel. No funny business.”

“Good.” Despite what you just said, you feel heat rise in you, again. Victor’s smirk and the light in his eyes when he looks at you is a little overwhelming, especially when there’s a bed, right there in front of both of you. And he looks like he wants to screw you on the floor, simply because it’s closer.

But you’re tired. And sore as fuck. And your pain has caught up with you and then some. And he also looks worse for wear. Sex, while extremely tempting, would not be a good idea. For the physical reasons, and for the other, preestablished reasons you’re currently too tired to recall. So you sigh, grab your overnight off the recliner he dropped it on and go toward the back.

“I’m gonna go take a shower.” You stop, almost in the hall, and turn to look at him. “And before you ask, no, I don’t need company.”

 

3:08 am

 

“Those look like they hurt a lot.” It’s dark in the living room, the only light coming from the lamp above the corner of the fold out couch where you’re reading. You look up from your book to see Victor walk out of the back, holding a towel and his clothes in his hands. Your eyes widen a little as you take him in. He’s wearing nothing but a pair of black boxer briefs, his body unexpectedly muscular, his skin soft looking and smooth, dotted with purple bruises, scar clusters scattered along his arms. You can see the scars and marks on his chest clearly, now, standing out against his muscular torso. Goddamn. You avert your eyes as he drops his clothes back into his duffel bag; he gestures to the bruises on your legs and arms.

“They do,” you reply, shifting on the bed. You can see his body moving out of the corner of your eye. His very strong, very capable body. _Fuck_. “My shoulder hurts more.”

He flops down on the other couch. You can feel his eyes tracing over your body, from your hair, your braids piled atop your head and a silk scarf wrapped around them, to your feet, in thick, woolen blue socks, and you immediately regret not packing something at least a tiny bit more modest to sleep in. Or at least a cardigan to throw over your shorts and super thin tanktop. “Nice socks.”

“Thanks,” you reply. “They’re warm.” He continues to look you over, his elbows braced on his knees, hands clasped, arm muscles bulging, clusters of tally mark scars scattered along his lean, muscular forearms.

Victor leans closer to you; he looks over at your left side, where the bullet grazed you.

“Do you want me to check it?” You shrug, as you turn the page, as if to say “if you want”. He rises, then, and in two steps, he’s sitting behind you, nudging your tanktop strap out of the way and traces the skin around your bullet wound, the gentle touch making a shiver rattle down your spine.

“Goddamn, you’re soft,” he exhales, his fingers trailing up to your shoulder and down your arm. You look at him over your shoulder.

“I moisturize.”

“Make sense.” His fingers press against the skin around the wound and you flinch, just a little, from the pain. “Sorry angel. It looks like a mild burn. You want me to dress it?”

“Nah, I’ll tough it out. Thanks for checking it,” you say.

“Of course, angel,” he breathes. You look over your shoulder at him. His eyes cut down, from yours to your mouth. His hands are heavy, warm as they rest on your waist now, slowly working under until they’re against bare skin. You pull in a sharp breath and he moves closer to you. Your heart is hammering so loudly, so quickly, you think he can probably hear it; your breath is heavy. You open your mouth to speak; to defuse the tension, to encourage him, _anything._

He leans forward, cutting you off, crushing his lips to yours. He takes advantage of your surprise and his tongue moves against your open lips, licking against the underside of it. You’re eager now, his lips on yours sending a jolt down your spine and you press back, breaking away from his mouth to turn on the spot. He grips your waist, twists your sleep tank in his hand and pulls you to him, and you oblige, straddling him. His hands go to your neck, to your jaw and pulls you down to him, his hand on your waist skimming up under to your bra. He pulls you tighter to him, throwing you off balance and you drop against him. He gasps against your mouth, flinching, and you pull away again, your forehead resting against his, waiting. Zsasz bites his bottom lip as he pulls you back down to his mouth.

“It’s fine,” he sighs. His tongue winds into you mouth and you lose focus immediately, surrendering to the feel of his hands on your body, until you slip, your weight coming down on his hip.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he grunts.

“That doesn’t sound like a good fuck,” you reply, your voice husky. Yes, you’re worried, but that doesn’t mean you’re not enjoying this a little bit. Especially since he feels _fucking perfect_ under you. Zsasz glares up at you, his breath sharp and arrhythmic, his hands white knuckling on your hips.

“It’s a good fuck,” he replies. “It’s a ‘I want in you so badly I can practically feel you shaking around my cock’ fuck.” You rise back to your knees and tilt your head to look at him. Zsasz’s hands go back up to your waist, trying to pull you back down, but you resist, breaking his grip on you and holding his arms behind him, panting against his lips.

“How much pain are you in right now?” Victor blinks and looks up at you.

“My cock is throbbing harder than my bullet wound,” he replies, deadpan. You let out a sharp, soft laugh.

“Your honesty is appreciated but I’m serious,” you say. You lean down; he’s so impossibly beautiful, his skin smooth and soft under you. You lips brush across his clavicle. Then you kiss his neck and shoulder, your lips dancing along his jawline to the other side. You mouth your way up to his earlobe, his pants gentle but heavy in your ear. “I’m only gonna keep going if you say what I want to hear.” Victor squirms against you and lets out a sharp pained grunt. “No,” you sigh, slowly rolling your hips forward. “That’s not what I want to hear.” Zsasz’s jaw clenches, and he’s up, his arms freed from your grip, his hands around your waist, your back against the couch cushions, his mouth on yours, your legs winding around his waist. His hips thrust against yours, his cock pressing hard and sharp against where you ache for him most, and you let out a loud gasp against his mouth.

“That’s what _I_ want to hear,” he murmurs; he pulls your tanktop up and buries his face in between your breasts, mouthing over the exposed skin.

“Fuck,” you whisper, holding the back of his neck, his collar as he tastes you. “Victor… _fuck_.”

A soft, shuffling sound gets your attention. Victor stops too; he reaches up, and turns the lamp off. You both lay still, tense in the dark, your hearts hammering, your breaths light and measured, Victor’s head cradled against your breasts, his hands on your shoulders, your legs around his waist; Victor sinks lower, against you, his hard length pressing against the apex of your thighs. You bite your lip, holding in the moan threatening to burst out, just as Mario wanders out of the hallway.

He goes toward the kitchen, opening cupboards until he finds a cup. He retreats toward the back; you hear the fridge door open. Zsasz is off you, fast, lying next to you in the dark.

Water pours, the door closes. Then Mario shuffles back out, past the living room, and down the hall; the master bedroom door closes.

You let out a slow, low breath, then look over at Zsasz. His eyes are on you, tracing over your features; he reaches out, runs his finger across your cheekbone. Before you can ask, he rises out of the bed to the recliner, snatching your book up. His eyes meet yours as he switches the overhead lamp on.

“Go to sleep, angel. I’ll take watch.” You nod, unsure of what to do, and pull the sheet over your shoulders, not trusting yourself to speak. Mostly because you know if you do, you’ll beg him to come back and finish what he started.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I thought, between how much I made y'all wait for the last few, how quiet the fandom is now, and how I've started school, that I'd give you two chapters this time around. So that'll mean that it might (MIGHT!) be a while before my next one. I gotta get this new school/work/life balance down.
> 
> Hope y'all liked it! :)


	10. Na Who Mad

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You're in Zsasz's car. Things happen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Title: "Na Who Mad" by Big Freedia
> 
> For Cloama; part one of a three part gift. happy super belated birthday, sis!

7:38 am

You yawn, softly, cracking your neck, wincing at the pain in your side, as you fly past the Gotham city limits. You’re pumped; you managed to shave about 20 minutes off the return trip.

Zsasz woke you up after about 2 hours. The two of you dragged Mario out of bed, and at the first faint sign of the sky turning colors, you headed out toward Gotham. You forced Victor out of the driver’s seat and took over about ten minutes into the drive back when he’d started drifting out of the lane; considering he took watch twice last night, you were only too happy to let him sleep. But you also had to admit; he was driving too slowly for your taste and you genuinely can’t wait to get home and sleep in your own bed.

When you get to the mouth of the Gotham Overpass, you pick up your mp3 player and turn to the loudest, wildest bounce song on your work out playlist. When the beat drops, you turn the music up halfway.

Victor jolts into consciousness, staring wildly, his gun drawn and ready. You smile over at him.

“Oh, good, you’re awake,” you say, turning the volume back down. “We’re almost back in Gotham.” Victor nods, blinking away his sleepiness.

“Take exit 12,” he murmurs. You nod.

“How’d you sleep?” Victor sighs as he looks over at you.

“Well, I was having a wonderful dream about you until you and Big Freedia took 15 years off my life.”

“Oh come on,” you scoff, grinning a little. “You’re a hitman. Like you were gonna see those 15 years anyway.”

“No need to be so hurtful, angel.” His words only just register.

“Wait,” you look over your outstretched arm at him. “You had a dream about me?” Victor shrugs, his eyes glimmering a little.

“That’s what captures your attention? Not the fact that I know of and enjoy Big Freedia?”

“Once I knew you liked Lykke Li, all bets were off. So?”

“So what? Like you’ve never had a dream about me.” You hesitate briefly, wondering if you should lie, but that’s all he needs; he grins, wide. “You’ve had a dream about me!”

“Two, actually,” you sigh; _fuck it_ , you think. _Maximum fuck it_.

“Well?” He’s turned toward you now, his expression expectant.

“Well, what?” He smirks, wide, and your body tingles all over, off the way he looks at you.

“I’ll show you mine ifyou show me yours.” You roll your eyes.

“Should we wake him?” You murmur, nodding at the back seat; Mario is still asleep, his arms curled around his father’s file, not that you’re surprised. He slept through at least three genuine fire alarms in his dorm if you remember correctly, but there was that time you and your dorm mates decided to have a block party and something managed to get him up in less than a second…

Victor’s eyes narrow slightly at you, but he plays along, casting a look over his shoulder and scoffing.

“Good luck to you if you can. He sleeps like he’s fulfilling my fondest wish.”

“What, that he’s dead?”

“No, that he’s in a coma, so Falcone doesn’t have to be inconveniently sad and I don’t have to deal with him. But by all means. Give it a go.”

You cast a look toward the rearview mirror and let out a soft chuckle, then look over at Victor, your hand back on the volume knob.

“Cover your ears,” you say. He does it; you crank the volume to MAX, the glass vibrating with the bass. Mario lets out a loud screech, flailing into alarmed wakefulness. Victor’s laughter fills the car as you turn the music back down to a manageable volume.

“Good morning, starshine,” you say, grinning. Mario glares at the two of you.

“I forgot you’re a morning person, Wayne,” he sighs, relaxing back into reclining position.

“I’m not a morning person,” you sigh. “I just pretend to be chipper so I won’t pass out in the mornings.”

“What’s the difference?” Victor asks. You look over at him, a smile on your lips forming just as a grin forms on his. Mario stares between the two of you, then rolls his eyes.

“Just fuck each other and be done with it,” he mutters. Victor turns to look at him before you can respond.

“We would have twice if you didn’t have such shitty timing,” he shoots back. You don’t know whether to laugh or cringe. Mario huffs.

“Well sorry, shit,” he mutters. His eyes go to you, but you simply roll your eyes and school your expression into a neutral one.

“Get yourself alert,” you reply. “We’re going to your dad’s office.” Mario sits up immediately, dropping the file on his lap and raking his hands through his hair to make it lay down. 

"Can we at least stop by my apartment so I can—“

“No,” you and Victor say in unison.

“Your father is expecting us,” Zsasz continues.

“And you’ve already denied me the pure joy of fresh pear tart. You will not take the slightly less pure joy of pear tart for breakfast,” you finish.

“What the fuck is with this pear tart?” Mario sighs, raking his nails through his hair one last time.

“It’s glorious and toasty and delicious.”

“Well, if I have to keep hearing about it—”

“You don’t deserve the bliss of the pear tart,” you reply, sharply. “Pear tart is for people who don’t annoy me and don’t almost get me killed.”

“Can I have pear tart?” Victor says. You shoot a look at him.

“No. You almost got me killed.” Victor pouts gently.

“That feels excessive, angel. Mario I understand, but _me_?” You can’t help but let out a laugh at that.

“Get over yourself,” you chuckle.

 

8:02 am

Three hours after you leave the safehouse, twenty minutes after you reach Falcone’s, nineteen minutes after you escort Mario in, and eighteen and a half minutes after he asks you to leave his office so they can speak to each other, you’re sitting on a couch in a room off of Falcone’s office, trying not to think about 1.) the excruciating level of pain you’re in, and 2.) Victor’s mouth on your neck and his fingers on your clit. You let out a soft exhale and un-cross your legs, your right knee throbbing from pain, just as he enters from Falcone’s office and joins you on the couch, sinking into the cushion, half an arm’s length away from you. He tilts forward, elbows on his knees, to look at you.

“Do you want a drink?” You meet his eyes; his gaze is tracking over you, assessing you, in that way that makes you feel exposed; and bite your lip, on impulse.

“Tea would be nice,” you murmur. Zsasz gestures to a woman behind the minibar and she joins you both.

“Tea for her, water for me,” he says. She nods, then turns to you.

“What kind?” Zsasz nudges you, his left elbow brushing against your arm.

“Green, nothing in it. Thank you,” you say. She nods as she leaves. You turn to him, your face contorting into mock seriousness. “I thought I told you not to touch me.” He slides closer to you, his thigh pressing against yours, then his right fingers run down your arm, and gently wrap around your wrist. He leans into you.

“I wasn’t the one who touched first,” he murmurs in your ear, chuckling a little. Heat floods all along your body.

“What can I say, I’m fickle,” you whisper; the bar is behind you. She probably can’t see either of you from where she’s standing. So you let your left drop to his knee, and slowly drag it upwards, fingers drifting toward his inner thigh. The corner of your mouth quirks up as your turn your head to meet his eyes. He smirks, leans forward to kiss you, biting your lip as he pulls away. He reaches over with his right, toward your zipper again, stroking at you through the denim until your eyes threaten to flutter closed. You bite your bottom lip and grab his forearm, groaning softly.

“Shhh,” he murmurs. “Easy, sweetness.” His hand disappears, and you shiver, pulling yourself together, just as the woman turns the corner on the couch and she hands you a cup of tea and Zsasz accepts his water. He nods at the cup. “Drink.”

You sip in silence, your eyes focused on him as he knocks his glass back in one go and sets it on the table in front of you. When you finish your tea, you set it on the table and lean back into the couch, crossing your legs and letting out a deep sigh as you move. Zsasz’s hairless brow cocks.

“You look like you want something else, sweetness,” he laughs, just as the door opens. You clear your throat and rise to your feet when Carmine enters. He bypasses your raised hand and hugs you instead.

“Thank you,” he murmurs. You nod against his shoulder. He pulls away from you, still holding your arms. “Victor told me about what you did, how you handled him. I’m forever grateful to you.” He reaches out and squeezes Zsasz’s shoulder. “The both of you.” Zsasz nods. Carmine drops his arms. Before he can look down and check his watch, you clear your throat.

“Carmine,” you say, softly. A wave of anxiety crashes over you as his eyes meet yours; you know you’re about to cross a line, but you know the ramifications of not doing it will be immeasurably worse. “I hoped, if you had a moment, I could speak to you privately.” Carmine pauses for the briefest of moments, then nods.

“For the woman who brought my son home, anything,” he replies, gesturing for you to follow him back into his office. He holds the door open for you and waves you toward the chair in front of his desk. Then pauses in the threshold. You turn to look as you sit, watching him. He’s staring at Victor, you realize, his gaze calculating. Then he raises his arm, and beckons him forward, once.

Victor’s eyes meet yours as he enters, his brows furrowing together imperceptibly. You don’t respond, at all. Victor takes up a spot just off to the side of Carmine’s desk, right by the window; Carmine sinks into his seat and smiles over his steepled fingers at you.

“How can I help you?” You let out a soft slow breath first.

“I’m well aware of the fact that this isn’t my place,” you begin; you want to stand up, but looming over him while you’re saying this would be a bad idea. “But I have to say something.”

“Your opinion is always valued, Marguerite,” he says. You nod.

“Your plans for an Auseillo takeover. Stop them.” Carmine’s eyebrows shoot up. The corner of his mouth curls.

“You’re right,” he murmurs, after a long, still moment. “This isn’t your place.” His dismissal is clear; your practical mind is screaming at you to apologize and leave. But you plow ahead anyway.

“You know I’m right. The organization is massive. Trying to take them on, especially now, when it’s clear that Maroni not only wouldn’t help, but would use anything he could find on you to stab you in the back, is not good. It’s downright dangerous.”

“Young lady,” Carmine warns. You shake your head.

“I’m not finished. Please,” you say; your hands are starting to shake a little. Carmine’s eyes are getting sharper as you go on. But he waves for you to continue. “I’m saying this not because I have a vested interest in your organization, but because I have a vested interest in the welfare of Gotham. If Ausiello gets wind of your plans, especially after yesterday, you wouldn’t stand a chance. He’d crush you. And then he’d inevitably leave Gotham to Maroni, and then…well I don’t have to explain to you why that would be horrible.” Carmine’s gaze is still sharp on you. You know, you can feel Victor telepathically telling you to shut the fuck up. Yet, again, you plow ahead.

“Carmine,” you say. “Mr. Falcone. Victor and I got burned last night. Twice. Not only did Maroni’s men find out that Mario was missing and he took an important document from you, but they found us in a random apartment in the middle of Metropolis. Which should have been impossible, because Victor did the most complex and excessive heat run I’ve ever experienced in my life before we went there. And the only people who knew that we were there were your people. You know this already, but clearly you need me to say it. You have a mole, Mr. Falcone.

“The only saving grace of any of this is that Ausiello clearly doesn’t want the fight.We’re lucky that he probably thinks the worst he lost out on were some contacts at the docks. But he made it obvious last night that he’s not afraid to use Maroni to try to take you on. So I’m begging you. For the good of Gotham, please. Kill this plan. At least for now. At least until you…clear your house out.” You sink back into the chair. Waiting. Your eyes locked on Carmine’s. His hands tense, then he looks down at his watch. 

“It’s almost 9 am,” he looks back up at you. “Thank you again, Marguerite,” he says. “Victor’s car has already been brought around. If you wouldn’t mind waiting outside for him to take you home.” You nod, rising to your feet, shaking imperceptibly.

“Have a lovely day, Mr. Falcone. Give Mario my best.”

“Carmine,” he says; he cracks a soft smile, then, and you relax, just a bit. “It’ll always be Carmine to you, Marguerite.” You say nothing at this, just nodding as you leave.

 

8:47 am

“Where to?” Victor says. You’re standing outside of Carmine’s office building when he comes up just behind you. He reaches up and brushes your braids over your shoulder. _Ugh_ …why does it feel so _good_ when he does things you’d curse _anyone else_ out for doing? Call you nicknames, standing really close to you, touching your hair. You shiver as you look up at him, though you’re past trying to convince yourself it’s because of your talk with Carmine.

“Wayne Manor,” you say. Victor walks across the street toward his car, a sleek matte black Maserati; he pulls the passenger door open, holds out a hand; you take it, shivers climbing all over your skin, as you slide into it. Zsasz gently shuts the door behind you and you let out a long slow breath as he gets into the driver’s seat. He smiles gently as he starts the car and pulls away from the curb.

“Nice car,” you murmur. He nods.

“Thank you.” Silence, then. “How’s your shoulder?” He says. You reach up, your hand brushing over the scar that the bullet left in the leather.

“Fine. How’s your hip?”

“Fine.”

“Good.” You want him to reach over again, reach into your jeans and touch you. You want him to pull over, make you ache even more than you already do, at least.

Your body is starting to hurt, though. The hits you took wore on you, and the bullet burn on your shoulder is radiating low, strong enough to hurt, spiking when you move.

“That was pretty fucking ballsy,” he says. You turn to look at him.

“What? Goading the most powerful man in Gotham into considering whether it’s worth the heat to kill me?”

“Don’t worry about that. He was impressed. I’m impressed.”

“If you say so.” Victor peeks over his shoulder at you.

“Angel. Look at me.” You do. His eyes switch between you and the road. “When I said ‘if it’s possible for anyone in this city to say no to Carmine Falcone and live, it’s you,’ I meant it. He respected your mother. And you’ve proven that you’re also worthy of that respect. The fact that he didn’t send you out when you told him to nix his plans should have told you all you needed to know.” You nod. The car falls silent again.

“How’s your hip? Really?” You say. He shifts, shoots a look at you over his extended arm.

“It hurts like a motherfucker,” he replies. “Between the all nighter, the fight, and the six hour drive, I’m ready to go to bed and actually sleep. Is that what you wanted to hear?” You smile back at him and nod.

“If it’s the truth, then yes,” you reply, smiling gently.

“So,” his tone makes you look over at him, makes you meet his lingering gaze with yours, his lips curling as his eyes dart from the road to you and back. “How would this be going if I hadn’t been shot?” You smirk and roll your eyes, then reach over and palm him through his pants, shivering a little as you feel him harden underneath your fingers.

“Well, I’d be riding _this_ ,” you squeeze it a little, feeling his girth and he jumps, the car switching gears briefly as his foot presses onto the accelerator, “like my life depended on it.”

Zsasz sighs. “I’m never skipping the fucking kevlar ever again.”

“Well,” you reply, grinning a little wider, “if you hadn’t gotten shot, I wouldn’t be entertaining fucking you, so count your blessings, mate.”

“Interesting. Unexpected.” His voice wavers, just a little, and he groans, his eyelids fluttering as you stroke him. You smirk, watching him as his jaw clenches.

“You alright, Zsasz?” You say, innocently. “You look a little uncomfortable.” Zsasz glares at you and suddenly you’re decelerating, his car pulling over to the shoulder, and he’s all over you, biting your bottom lip, pulling your jacket off your shoulders, unbuttoning your jeans, and you respond in kind, climbing into his lap, ripping his jacket open, running your hands over his solid, warm chest, lightly fingering the buttons. You bear down and grind against him and he moans in your mouth, clawing at your sweater, deftly undoing your knife holster, reaching under to get at your bra, pulling your hair to gain access to your neck.

You whine as he bites, licks, tastes your skin, as his other hand dips into your open jeans, reaching into your panties to feel your wetness. You moan, loudly, your nails digging into his neck when he touches you, rubs your swollen clit, the hand fisting in your hair pulling you down to kiss him. You oblige, rolling your hips in his lap as he touches you. He tries to sit up, and you lift up with him; he pulls the seat recliner and you both fall toward the backseat, Victor’s hand coming up to grip the waistband of your jeans, to pull them down over your hips, pull you closer to him. You’re ripping his shirt open, kissing and licking your way down to his clavicle as he squeezes your ass, groans underneath you. He holds you close and sits up, slides back, rotates, and the two of you are laid out on the backseat. Zsasz’s arm bumps against your ribcage, right against a particularly painful bruise, and you flinch, letting out a pained grunt, all of your aches and pains flooding back from under the rush of adrenaline and the haze of arousal in a flash. Victor stops, immediately.

“You alright?” He says, biting your bottom lip. You shiver, softly, gently, groaning. 

“Everything hurts,” you murmur against his mouth; he shifts, his thigh bumping against your left one, right into a massive bruise, and you jump, grabbing the wrist of the hand now resting underneath your belly button. He looks down at you, his pupils blown out, panting from his desire. “It’s been a while since I was in a fight like that. Forgot how bad virgin bruises are the day after. It all aches.” He sits back on his heels, stooped over to meet your eye, his expression serious.

“We don’t have to do this right now. We c—” You grab a fistful of his shirt and pull him back down to you; his hands hit the leather on either side of your head to short his fall; your hands snake up, your fingers dig into the back of his neck; he groans into your kiss, low and resonant, vibrating in your throat.

“Yes we do,” you mouth against his lips. Victor smirks, then, biting his bottom lip, leans forward and devours your soft lips, leaving you panting when he pulls away.

“Well…I guess a nice hard cathartic fuck isn’t on the menu this morning, angel,” he says; he unbuckles your boots and pulls them off; then tugs your jeans and panties off your legs. He groans as he looks down at you; pulls his gloves off. “So making you come on my face is the next best option… sound good to you?” His fingertips press against the joint between your leg and your hipbone, right on the safe spot in-between two particularly nasty bruises. At least you think they look bad, based on the way he’s looking at them. His eyes dart back up to yours; his other hand comes up to tap your chin. “Answer me, angel.” You nod. “Verbally.”

“Yes,” you sigh, breathless. Victor’s hand releases your chin, and slowly runs down the center of your body, raising goosebumps on your skin. You arch into his touch. He smirks.

“One more time, sweetness,” he whispers. “Sound good to you?”

“Yes, Zsasz…” you reply, immediate. “Please…I want it.” Two of his fingers gently press into your already slick core; you clench around his fingers, sighing, trying to find purchase on the seats with your feet to ride his fingers. Victor’s free hand, resting against your chest, gently presses into your upper stomach, just underneath your breasts, right on the bruise he hit earlier. You inhale sharply; his hand shifts lower, into a safer spot. He leans down toward you, his fingers shifting in you as he kisses you, softly.

“You’re hurt,” he murmurs, between gentle pecks. “You keep trying to move and you’ll pull a muscle or make it worse and then you’ll be sorry and I’ll be upset. So…” he bites down on your bottom lip, groans into your mouth when you start to clench around his fingers again, when he starts to slowly thrust them into you again. “Either you relax these muscles and let me work you over, or…well, you already know what that’s going to be don’t you? Right, sweetness?”

“Yes, Zsasz,” you sigh. He softly kisses your neck.

“ _Mmm_ …I like that…I think I’d like you calling me Victor better. Try that out if you want.” His eyes flicker up to yours and he smiles, sharp, wild, hungry, and you shake a little under his gaze, desperate for more.

“Yes, Victor…” He thrust his fingers up, sharper, adds a third one.

“Fuck, that is _good_ ,” he sighs into your skin. “This isn’t exactly how my dream went…but it’s close enough.” He scoots down. “Can you slide back?” You nod, slowly shifting backward on the seat until your head rests against the door.

Victor’s fingers slip out of you; you whine, writhing a little, even as he shushes you, pressing his other palm against the skin beneath your bellybutton.

“Easy,” he sighs. “Be patient.” He slides his fingers into his mouth, and fucking _groans_ , his eyes slipping closed. When he opens them, his eyes are fixed on yours; his gaze is locked on you, his fingers drop from his lips, hands shaking on your thighs; not just with fear, but desperate anticipation. Fuck…he fucking _wants_ you, and the only thing keeping him from flipping you over and fucking you into the Corinthian leather is concern wrapped in willpower.

_Goddamnit_ do you want to _break_ that willpower.

He’s so still now, his eyes shut, schooling himself to be calm enough to not hurt you. But then they open, and he leans into you again, kissing you, filthy as _fuck_ and hot as _hell._ He smirks as he moves down your body, kissing fabric, then bare skin as he nudges your sweater out of his way. His tongue dips into your bellybutton, trails a line down to the soft squishy skin above your pubic bone, and he bites you there. Kisses you there. He looks up at you, smiles a smile that makes you go all warm inside.

“Tell me if it hurts.”

“Yes, Victor,” you huff. His smile instantly transforms into a smirk. His right hand goes around the outside of your left thigh and pulls it wider open, slowly, wider until you wince, and he stops. Then his left presses against the juncture of your right hip and right thigh and repeats the action, until you tell him to stop.

“Relax, sweetness,” he whispers. Before you even have time to react to that, Victor’s face is between your thighs, licking, slowly, reverently eating you out. You shake underneath him as he tastes you, moaning lewdly, his tongue going all across you, sliding his fingers into you and pumping.

“Fuck,” he hisses, licking your clit, “you taste so fucking _good_.” His hand comes down, to grip your ass, and you writhe underneath him.

“Is that good?” He grunts. It feels fucking _amazing_ , you’re not even sure you can string a few letters together to answer him, but you “mm hmm,” nodding quickly, because you know if you don’t respond somehow, he’ll fucking stop, and that would probably sting more than the bruise on your side and the bullet burn on your shoulder combined, you’re absolutely fucking _sure_ about that.

He licks you again, moaning, his tongue vibrating against your vulva, and you shudder, one hand flying up to grip the headrest, your other hand going up to cover your mouth, your bottom lip clamped between your teeth. Victor tsks, then grabs your elbow, pulling your hand out of your mouth. He catches your hand, then presses it down onto your stomach, squeezing the top of it.

“Relax,” he whispers, so close, you can feel his breath fanning across your clit. “Talk to me, sweetness.”

“Fucking hell,” you gasp; it’s taking every ounce of self control you have to not let your already strained muscles tense up. But every time you let your muscles soften the sensation spikes by a thousand. Rides right on the edge between pleasure and pain.

His forearm goes across your stomach, gently weighs against it, to hold you down, to remind you. You un-tense, again, then shake, as he sucks on your clit.

“You like that, sweetness? You like it when I play with your clit?”

“ _Ah_! Fuck…yes…please….” Victor hums; your back arches against his arm. Your back spasms.

“Margo,” he warns, his voice gravelly; you look down at him; his eyes bright and searching, staring straight through you. Goddamnit, _fucking goddamnit,_ he stares at you, stops moving until you relax, his arm moving with your breath.

“I’ll behave,” you sigh.

“You promise?”

“ _Yes._ ”

“You’re going to do what I tell you to?” Soft kisses trail along the bruise on your thigh. Soft and gentle and easy against the hot painful skin. You shiver. His fingers are still in you, but they’re immobile.

“Yes, Victor,” you breathe; you _breathe_. Fuck, it’s all you _can_ do.

“I wanna hear you beg. Can you do that?” You let out a soft groan despite yourself, and he thrusts his fingers in you again, his breath heavy. “ _Mm_. That’s what I like to hear. What do you want?”

“Let me come,” you whimper. You’re hot all over, you’re clenching around him every time he so much as breathes near your clit. “ _Please_. I don’t think I can hold on like this.”

He wraps his lips around your clit and sucks it, lightly; he slaps the side of your ass again, lightly, and you shake, a sharp cry shuddering out of your throat.

“You can and you will,” he whispers against you, and he licks around your entrance, his fingers sliding out and going up to stroke your clit. “You’re not gonna come until I want you to.” You whine, desperately resisting the urge to arch your back, your legs shaking around him. His tongue plunges into you, tasting you, making obscene noises as his slick fingers slowly work you over.

“Victor,” you sigh, breathy. It pitches up into a desperate whimper.

“And I won’t want you to come until you beg me for it.”

“ _Victor_ ,” barely escapes your lips, just barely.

“Beg me,” he whispers.

“Please,” you sigh, “Please, fuck, _please_ , I _need_ to come.”

“Alright _,_ ” he murmurs; then he smirks. “You’re so pretty when you beg _._ ” Victor picks up his pace, his fingers plunging into you faster and faster. He sucks on your clit, hard and sharp, and you go rigid, whimpering, your thighs shaking around his head as you shatter, break, crest on his fingers, on his face. He laps at you, grinning against your vulva as you shake against his mouth, trying to angle away from him, shivers, and sharp, intense pain wracking your body. Victor leans away, then, his cheek resting on your uninjured thigh. You can’t see him; you can’t see much of _anything_ , your vision is still going back to normal. But you know he’s smiling.

“Feel good, sweetness?” Oh, he’s _definitely_ smiling. Prick.

“Fuck,” you sigh. He laughs, softly pulling your legs up over his head and into his lap as he slouches into the seat next to you.

“I’ll take that as a yes.” He flicks a braid off your face and grins wider. “You liked it. Your legs are shaking.”

“Shut up,” you murmur, laughing a little. You both fall silent for a minute, Victor tracing patterns on your thighs. You shift a little, and feel his hardness press against your calf. You look up at him.

“Victor,” you purr; he looks over at you and grins.

“Easy now, angel,” he sighs. “We’re injured. You’re very injured. You’re on shaky legs.” You sit up slowly, then slide over to him, willing your legs to stay steady, thankful that your orgasm has taken the edge of the pain off somewhat. You ease yourself into his lap, wrapping your arms around his neck.

“But I want it,” you reply. “Don’t you?”

Victor pulls you against him, holding you up and a little above him; his eyes flit down to your lips. The corner of his mouth quirks up as he leans up and kisses you, nipping your bottom lip as he draws away from you. Then back in again, licking your top lip, groaning into it as you slide your tongue into his mouth, tasting yourself on his lips. His hand creeps down to your ass and he squeezes it, making you wind your waist against him, making him groan a little louder, shift under you. You break the kiss first, sighing, your noses touching.

“You’re entirely too good at distracting me, gorgeous,” he growls. You can tell he’s deliberating, trying to gauge _just_ how exhausted he is. He’s almost convinced, you can see it.

But then his grip on your waist slips, and you don’t catch your weight fast enough, owing to your thighs shaking, and you collapse, your shoulder slamming straight into his chin. He bursts into laughter, as he holds you; your shoulders start shaking. You’re not sure if you’re laughing because you’re genuinely amused or because of intense embarrassment. Then you raise your head and plant your palms on his shoulders.

“Right,” you groan. “Point made.” You try to move off his lap, but your left leg gives out on you. Victor catches you before you can fall onto the floor, laughing even harder.

“You alright there, angel?” You roll your eyes.

“I am superb, thank you very much. How are you?”

Victor helps you off his lap; he opens the armrest between the driver and passenger seat, pulls out a package of wet wipes, and hands it to you.

“Fucking exhausted,” he replies. Then he winks at you. “And still hungry.”

“Shut _up_.”

The two of you clean up, then after you have a moment to get redressed, Victor helps you out of the back and into the front passenger seat, and continues to drive you toWayne Manor. When you get within a mile, you gesture over to the side of the road.

“You can drop me off here.” He shakes his head, then keeps going.

“Too far.” You look over at him.

“Excuse you?” He meets your gaze with a level gaze of his own.

“You worked half a shift, wrestled a man twice your size into a car, went toe to toe with _10 enforcers_ , scaled down the side of a building and _fell_ , and orgasmed, all on four hours of sleep. Your leg gave out about sixteen minutes ago. I’m not letting you walk a mile to your house. Sorry, angel.” He doesn’t look the least bit sorry and you tell him so. He shrugs. You sigh.

“The manor is on a hill. If you get closer than a mile, they’ll be able to see you from the top of the driveway.” Victor looks over at you, a glint in his eyes and a grin forming on his lips.

“Are you ashamed of me, baby?”

“Victor,” the edge in your voice makes him sigh.

“I’ll drop you off at a quarter mile.”

“Half mile.”

“We passed the half mile already.” Your hand goes to the door handle.

“I will bail out right now if I have to.” Victor looks over at you.

“You’re going to bail out of a moving car…because I’m trying to make sure you don’t hurt yourself?”

“I’m going to bail out of a moving car because I am trying to protect my family from this ridiculous and unnecessary part of my life and pulling up in a fucking Maserati with a mob enforcer is doing the exact opposite of that.”

“Wayne,” he starts. “You’re also just human and your body will give out on you if you don’t take it easy. Don Falcone ordered me to drop you at your door, so that is what I’m going to do. And I’m not an enforcer, if that makes you feel better,” he adds on, tweaking your chin. You swat his hand away.

“You know what I mean,” you snap. Victor sighs.

“Then by all means,” he gestures to the door. You huff; he’s right. It’s fucking irritating when he’s right, you realize. You’re more likely to hurt yourself if you jump out. You have to suck it up.

“You can drop me at the gate, then,” you sigh.

“How far away is it?” You look over at him; he’s staring you down, his hands still on the wheel. The car is still moving; you don’t wanna break first.

“A couple hundred feet. You can see through to the backyard garden from it.” Victor, satisfied, nods and turns back to the road.

Your relationship with your mother always demands the most attention, from others and yourself, for obvious reasons. But there are also many, almost innumerable occasions where your father rises to the forefront of your mind. You know, that you were extremely rude to Victor when he’s only trying to take care of you, and you can hear your father’s voice in the back of your mind right now: _If you don’t stop rolling your gotdamn eyes, suckin’ them teeth and apologize to that cueball headed ass boy right now…don’t forget who the fuck we are, young lady. Stop embarrassing our people._

You resist the urge to huff. You hate it when your father is right. You’ve always been too stubborn for your own good. Not to mention, you’re still a fucking socialite, and rudeness is practically a cardinal sin.

“I was rude, a moment ago, and you’re only trying to help me. I’m sorry.” The corner of Victor’s mouth quirks up. He reaches over and pats your knee.

He pulls up to the gate a few minutes later and parks. Then turns to look at you.

“Let me get the door for you, please,” he says. His look is so earnest, you find yourself nodding. He opens his trunk, then slips out of the car. Pulls out your backpack and overnight, and carries it to the intercom. Then comes to your door. Opens it. Holds out his hand. You take it; he grasps your hand, gently but firmly, and pulls you out of the car, shutting the door behind you. Then his arm slowly loops around your waist, slow enough for you to counter him, step to the side and out of his grip if you want.

But you don’t want to.

He presses into you, holding you between him and his car. His eyes meet yours; he bites his lip. Leans into you. Stops. Holds, his eyes half lidded and intent on yours.

Waiting for you to close the gap.

You grasp his biceps. Bite your bottom lip. Your eyes on his. Then lean into him, your noses grazing. You lean further, then…

You kiss him, in full view of the front door. And the intercom. And anyone in the gardens. Fuck it. It feels too good to regret. The way he kisses you makes your body tingle all over, makes the blood rush to your brain, then all the way down to your toes. It makes you feel alive, in a way that you haven’t felt in years. He makes you feel like air. He kisses you like he needs it to survive. Like you’re an oasis and he’s dying of thirst. Like you’re the only thing that matters in his world.

The idea makes you shake. But it makes you feel safe. You’ve never felt safe like this. Your body melts, warm and comfortable in his arms; he holds you closer, sighing; your tongue sliding into his mouth. His kisses are so soft, sweet, gentle, but passionate; they take your breath away, with their intensity. With the adoration behind them.

Something cracks, in you, something you’ve been trying to repress for years. You panic, your hands are on his shoulders, you’re ready to push him away, to kill the connection you’ve been running away from, but then he moves closer, he presses closer into you, into the car, his hand creeps up, his fingers slipping into your braids, cupping the base of your skull, and the wall you constructed around your heart, have carefully maintained for the past two years, begins to crumble.

Victor holds you, gently, like you’re made of glass, and you kiss him back, like reality will shatter around you if you stop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes are at the end of Chapter 12!


	11. Andromeda

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You get some quality Wayne family time in; Alfred gives you some advice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Title: "Andromeda" by Gorillaz
> 
> For Cloama; part two of your belated birthday gift! <3

Based on how low the sun is, streaming into your bedroom window, it’s far past noon. You’re annoyed; you don’t like sleeping past 11 on the best of days, and you only meant to take a two hour nap. But considering you were still awake, repressing a heart attack in Falcone’s office not even six hours ago, you’re less annoyed at yourself. It’s also Saturday, and a long weekend and you got obscenely beat up, so you’re being nice to yourself right now. Your face hurts, you have an almost unbelievable amount of bruises on your body; the thought of getting out of bed right now is nearly impossible.

It also doesn’t help that when you wake up and start shifting around, you feel a hard and sharp ache on your thighs and ass; you remember, vividly and immediately, the sight of Victor’s head between your legs, his lips on yours, and a delicious hot rush washes over you. You stretch, luxuriously, giving into the burning ache of your muscles.

You have to admit, you missed this feeling; you went to bed bruised and sore many a time after one of your mum’s training sessions. The sensation made you feel as if they were still alive; that she’d bustle in any minute with a utilitarian breakfast, telling you to get up, you’re late for weapons training and Alfred’s fiddling with the obstacle course, so hurry, love!

As if on cue, a knock sounds on your door. You freeze; then sit up.

“Yeah?”

“It’s me!” Alfred’s voice makes your heart rate drop; you’re not yet sure how you’re going to explain the state of your face to the Waynes.

“Come in!” Alfred elbows the door open, a food laden tray in his hands. You sit up, then wince, hissing as you push yourself to sit up. Alfred’s eyes narrow at you.

“Hard paper?” You sigh. And note with distinct shame (which you’re sure he intended) that there’s a piece of pear tart next to the tea and toast.

“I can explain.” Alfred perches on the foot of your bed, then gestures for you to go on. “There was an emergency.”

“An emergency,” he replies, after a beat. “You delayed coming home after two months, for an emergency, which got the Bejing beat out of you? Right, whose emergency was it exactly? Yours? Madison’s again?”

“No! I just…I…it was Falcone.” Alfred sits up and scoots closer.

“You’re going to need to start from the very bloody top and work your way to here, noodle.” You tell Alfred everything, save for the bits about you taking Victor to Vinland, Victor coming to visit you at work, and…pretty much everything distinguishing Victor as more significant than someone who works for Falcone. Because you know what Alfred’s next question will be and you don’t have the energy to deal with explaining who he is to you on top of that right now.

“And after that he had me driven home.” You fall silent. Alfred’s a little slackjawed. You have to admit, you’re a little relieved; Madison knows, but she’s a civilian, and there’s only so much you can tell her before you feel the panic rising in her. You feel spent. Alfred is still buffering, clearly. Finally he looks up at you. Then gestures to your tea. You oblige, gratefully lifting it and draining your cup. You pour yourself another, then pour some out for Alfred and hand it to him. The two of you drink your tea in silence. Then Alfred sets his cup down.

“This is what I am going to do, noodle,” he begins. “I’m going to ask you the same question I asked your mother at the end of our service. Are you done?”

You consider his statement for a moment. You know you’re not trying to make a habit of being a mob pinch hitter, but…well you can’t deny that you liked it. Alfred watches your face, then sighs.

“I don’t know,” you say, quickly, watching him nod.

“That’s actually what your mother said,” he replies, smiling sadly. He squeezes your hand. “So I’m going to tell you what I told her. The double act isn’t sustainable. One way or another, the people you love will compromise you. So be careful.”

“I will,” you reply, after a long moment. “I promise.” Alfred refills his and your cup, and you start digging into your breakfast. You start on the pear tart before a thought occurs to you.

“Al?” You say, casually as you can muster, cutting the tart into forkfuls. “When was she done?” He smiles, and nudges your chin, gently.

“When she had you.”

 

“And on the third day,” Thomas’s voice rings out from across the sitting room; you wince, smiling as he rises out of his seat and comes to hug you when you enter. You wince even harder when he squeezes you tight and kisses you on the cheek. Alfred assured you before you left your room that your concealer was neat enough to hide your bruises, so all you had to do was make sure they didn’t catch any of your pain cues. He pulls away to inspect you, smiling. “We missed you, Go. How’d your paper pan out?” You smile brightly, flopping down onto the couch next to Martha’s cushy seat, suppressing the agonizing pain in your shoulders.

“Pretty sure it’s aced! Thank you for being understanding.” Martha reaches over and squeezes your knee.

“We want you to succeed, dear. Of course.” You lean toward her.

“Speaking of success,” you nab a black envelope off the table and wiggle it in her face. “Are these the RSVP Reminder envelopes or do mine eyes deceive me?” Martha whips the envelope out of your hand and tweaks your nose.

“Indeed they are! Do you want to help me attach the address labels?” You perk up, smiling.

“Do I!” Martha hands you half of them, and three pages of the address labels. You pull the afghan hanging over the back of the couch down to cover your legs and snuggle into it.

When your mother and Martha first met, there was a shared sense of ambivalence about the other person. Not dislike, but a mutual confusion, and a bit of an inability to understand the other person. It didn’t help that, because Martha was Gotham royalty, a Kane family direct descendant, to be exact, and Carmen had been a lower middle class hoodgyal from Peckham her entire life, they had no shared life experience.

That was until after Martha and Thomas got married and Thomas was so busy with the Wayne Enterprise R&D Department that Martha took over planning the Wayne Foundation Charity Gala one year. Three months after she’d taken it on, swearing up and down that she was fine, she had it handled, Carmen found her in the library, in a puddle of tears, clutching a mass of stock paper and a crumpled list of allergies. After Carmen managed to calm Martha down with a cup of tea, she decided to take over planning and told Martha not to worry. She’d take care of it all.

Martha found her, a month and a half later, hiding in the gym, having a breakdown over the placecards.

They both agreed that it was a two person job from then on, and a beautiful friendship blossomed as a result. Thomas was baffled when the two of them completely boxed him out of the planning process the following year and every year after, but made his bemused peace with it. Until you, at the age of 13, suggested changing the location from Vinland Park to the Gotham Museum and they adopted you into the decorating fold without question. Since then, the benefit planning had been a sacred experience for the three of you, your way of bonding with your two mums. After Carmen died, you were practically comatose, so Martha planned it by herself for the first time. And when you saw the dedication to your mother in the programme that year, complete with the renaming of it to commemorate her memory, you burst into tears.

Now, no matter what’s going on in your life, even if you’re halfway across the country, you help Martha plan it. Every year. Without fail.

Doing the invitations has always been your favorite part, but since you missed that, following up on unanswered invitations is the next best thing. It was coincidentally your mother’s favorite part. She adored the formal passive aggressiveness of it all. It reminded her of _Pride & Prejudice_.

“…and I’ve left floral arrangements and final selections on the menu up to you,” Martha was saying. You nod.

“Brill. When do you need them?”

“By next weekend. We’re having it early this year, remember? So we can take Bruce to Aspen for his break?”

“Right,” you nod. “I remember.” You did not. Not at all. Goddamnit. You completely forgot the date changed. You haven’t even thought about looking for a dress.

“No you didn’t. Which is why I started looking for dresses for you,” Martha says, smiling. You hang your head, then look up at her sheepishly.

“Sorry, Martha.”

“You’re busy, dear. Three semesters to go. It’s okay.”

You nod, absently, as you flip through the list of non-responses and tsk.

“Nicolas Elliot hasn’t replied yet,” you say, rolling your eyes as you start with him.

“I doubt he will,” Martha sighs, “you know his part of the family isn’t fond of you, though I’ve yet to understand why…”

“Might have something to do with the disgrace of us, the main branch, marrying a bunch of people of color and diluting the blue, perhaps,” you reply, smiling.

“Yeah,” Thomas laughs, “but you kept the strong jawlines and avoided reviving the webbed toe gene, so whose winning?”

Martha winces. “I can’t help but feel like a hit dog here.”

“Oh stop, darling,” Thomas says, eyes twinkling. “You’re an off-branch who married an off-branch. We’re fine.”

“Yeah,” you add on, “Bruce and I are practically mutts. Yeah, some sickly eighth cousin with bad eyesight could claim our inheritance, but we’d walk out of here with our strong dominant gene Elliot-Wayne chins held high.”

“What’s so funny?” Bruce says, bounding in, just as Martha wipes the tears of laughter from her eyes. You pinch his chin and boop his nose.

“Oh, nothing, nephew-brother, how’d you sleep?” Thomas bursts into laughter again, Martha lets out an unbelievable cackle and you follow suit. Alfred soon enters, staring in bemused delight as the three of you giggle uncontrollably, Bruce sitting, baffled, waiting for you all to finish.

“Margo,” he says, a little exasperated.

“Yes, nephew-brother,” you reply, smiling.

“We need to talk about _On Floating Bodies_ , you promised.” You immediately snap to attention and sit up.

“Yes, of course,” you say. You pull him down to sit next to you and start pulling the labels to attach to envelopes. “Let’s talk.” Bruce happily snuggles in next to you.

 

“I see your ears are still attached,” you smile as Thomas lightly taps you on the shoulder, right on the spot where your bullet burn is, but you barely feel it; Alfred scrounged up some painkillers for you hours ago. You just need to get through the next two days and the pain will fade fairly quickly. At least that’s how you remember it going.

Thomas places the rest of the dinner plates in the sink. Martha ushered Bruce upstairs to get ready for bed ten minutes ago. Alfred is putting away the leftovers; half your attention is on where he’s putting the pear tart so you can snag another plate of it later tonight.

“They’re hanging on by a thread, to be honest, but I don’t mind,” you reply, laying the plate you’re rinsing on the sideboard. “I missed him. It killed me not to come home straightaway.” Thomas nods, then picks up a dishcloth. He starts drying off the dishes.

“Mm. What was the paper on?” Your mind races, briefly.

“ _Invisible Cities_ ,” you blurt. “Italo Calvino. Baudelaire and space. Things like that.” Thomas nods again.

“Lit theory,” he says. You hum. “Madison’s taking lit theory?”

“Hm?” Alfred has taken a seat behind you, at the kitchen table. A prickle grows on the back of your neck.

“Madison,” Thomas repeats. He’s started drying the cast iron saucepan; he won’t remember to put olive oil on it before he puts it away, you think. Your mother was fanatical about preserving the cast iron. Your father used to joke that he couldn’t pick up a pot without it sliding out of his hands. “Alfred mentioned that you said you and Madi had papers to write.” Goddamnit. _Goddamnit_. ‘My roommate and I’ had been your go-to lie as an undergrad, especially when you didn’t want your parents to know just who you were with. Telling them that the person you were dating was your roommate didn’t feel like a lie, especially when you were dating people living in your co-ed dorm building. Alfred’s voice and your panic made you go to your default answer, and now you’d have to see how well you could lie your way out of it.

Though between Alfred’s steely eyed but resigned glare, and Thomas’s relaxed but pointed tone, you know you have your work cut out for you.

You’re not sure if Alfred told him the truth or not, but you’re not gonna let them trip you into telling.

“She’s auditing,” you reply easily. You just have to tell her and teach her enough about Clarice Lispector and Foucault to be passable. Madison’s smart, she’ll catch on. She’ll lie for you.

“Ah,” Thomas says. He lays the saucepan to the side for it to dry then picks up the silverware. “Was it a group project?”

“No,” you say. “Madison’s not a theory person, she asked me for help.”

“That’s good of you,” Thomas says, smiling. Alfred is still dead silent. Anxiety blossoms in your chest. “Do you have a study group?” You pause. Briefly.

What is the fucking right answer here?

Thomas beats you to the punch.

“I was in the garden this morning, working. I heard a car pull up.” Your stomach starts to sink. Shit.

“Mm hm,” you say, for lack of a better response. Thomas dries the utensils and moves to the glasses.

“I stood up to see who it was and I saw you. Standing outside the gate. With someone?” Thomas’ voice pitches up, Alfred lets out a heavy sigh, and you realize, just that quickly, that this isn’t what you thought it was.

At least with Thomas. The jury’s still out on Alfred.

“Oh.” Thomas nudges you, smiling.

“ _Oh?_ That’s all you can say? You’re seeing someone new and all you can tell me and Alfred is _oh_?”

“There’s nothing to tell Thomas,” you say. Your heart is racing. You can feel Alfred staring a hole in the back of your head, but you try to keep it light for Thomas’s sake.

“Come on now, Margo. You can tell me the truth. Though I understand why you wouldn’t want to tell us why you were actually staying late—”

“No, no no no,” you say quickly, turning to look at Thomas. “I promise you, I swear, I wouldn’t ever miss seeing Bruce just for…some _man_. I really did have work to do. He just drove me home after. He insisted.” Thomas laughs, then hooks an arm around you.

“You seemed quite alright after you kissed him, though,” he says. “Did you insist?”

“Oh my God, Tom, what does that even _mean_?” You say, laughing with him. You turn off the sink water and he hands you the dishcloth to dry your hands with. Alfred is still staring at you.

“I’m not sure.” You roll your eyes and swat him with the dishcloth. “I do know, however, that you’re my goddaughter and I want you to be safe. And I’d like to know this young man’s intentions with—”

“Nooo, Uncle Thomas,” you sigh. “That’s a lot. Excessive, even. It’s not that big a deal.”

“Yes, it is,” he says. He taps you on the nose and smiles. “I want to meet this young man of yours at some point. If you intend for him to be your young man, that is.”

“I’ll keep you posted,” you reply, dryly. Thomas elbows you lightly, then hugs you.

“Like father like daughter…” he kisses you on the forehead, then retreats to the door. “Goodnight, Margo. Goodnight Al.”

“Goodnight, Thomas.”

“Goodnight, sir.” When Thomas leaves the kitchen, absolute silence falls, swiftly. You finish putting away the dishes, oil the cast iron saucepan, and put it away. Finally, you wipe down the sideboard, neatly fold the dishcloth, and turn toward the table. Alfred is sitting at the kitchen table still, only now he’s nursing a whiskey. You want to leave, to avoid this conversation but you know you can’t. So you get yourself a glass, pour yourself some from the bottle sitting at his elbow, and sit across from him. You take a long drink. Then look up at him. He’s looking at you now, pensively.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Nothing comes to you. Nothing but the truth.

“I don’t know,” you say. “…everything else felt so fucking complicated…adding him on and explaining…when I didn’t even know what there was to explain…” You falter. Down the rest of your whiskey. Pour yourself another one. Top up Alfred’s. He murmurs a thanks and takes a sip.

“Who is he? Not one of your school chums, I assume?”

“No. His name is Victor. He’s a…he works for Falcone.”

“Did you delay for him?”

“No. _No_. Falcone sent him. He needed my help. And Elliot or not, Wayne-adjacent or not, you don’t say no to Carmine Falcone.” Alfred nods. Then sits in silence for a moment. He closes the bottle. Finishes his whiskey. Drops his glass in the sink. Stands in front of you.

“Do you remember when your mother died?” Your chest tightens.

“Yes,” your voice shakes but only a little. Alfred, thankfully, pretends not to notice.

“You didn’t go to the morgue. You didn’t claim her, because I didn’t want you to see it. Because it was my job. I was her mate, part of her cohort. The person on her six, and her on mine. I owed her that. And it was the hardest fucking thing I’ve ever had to do. It killed me. Because I helped make her who she was. She was more than my mate, she was my sister. She meant so much to me. And I cannot…I _cannot_ watch the same thing happen to you. I can’t go to the morgue and identify you.

“I love you. I want you to keep that in mind, noodle. _I love you_. And I loved your mum and dad. Like my own blood. So I need you to understand something. This…thing that you’ve chosen, that you set in motion, will eat you alive, eventually if you let it. It runs the potential of destroying the lives of everyone you love. And I can help you, I promise you that. I can. You can do this and let it go later. It can work. But it will not work if you do what you just did here. You cannot put what’s out there before your family. And you cannot fucking lie to me about it. I will lie to them, to protect them. But I don’t want that for you. And I won’t let you.

“You broke Bruce’s heart, you know that?” Tears burn in the back of your eyes as you nod. “You will not do that again. No matter what is going on out there, you will not do that again. Or you’re done.” You nod.

“If Falcone calls you again, you will tell me what is going on, and I will make the excuses for you, am I understood?” You nod. Alfred leans forward and pats you on the hand.

“I mean this in the most loving way possible, but you’re not your mum, noodle. This’ll pass. You’ll square this part of your life away and embrace something more…legitimate. You’ll need to. Mark my words.” You nod. Alfred squeezes your hand.

“Well, off to bed then,” he says gesturing to the door.

“No,” you reply, lifting the glass to your lips. “I…nightcap. Then I’m off.” Alfred hesitates for a quick minute before he nods then retreats.

“Very well, then. Goodnight, dear.”

“Goodnight, Alfred.”

You don’t realize until, in 20 minutes, after you’ve rinsed out the glasses, trudged up the stairs, and gotten back into bed, that your painkillers have worn off. But you’re not crying from the physical pain. It’s the thought of Alfred, standing in the morgue, over your mum’s body as he identifies her, your resemblance to her as clear as day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes are at the end of Chapter 12!


	12. Crush on You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Madison shares Alfred's concerns. Falcone sends you a gift. Victor gives it to you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Title: "Crush on You" (Knife Party Remix) by Nero
> 
> For Cloama; part three of your belated birthday gift! <3

“You did _what_?!” You loudly shush Madison and pull her back down to her spot on the fountain next to you, smiling embarrassedly at passerby as they look for the source of the sudden commotion. Madison ignores them all; she stares at you, waiting for an explanation. When one doesn’t come, she shakes her head, staring slack-jawed into the middle distance.

“You let scary bald dude eat you out. I cannot fucking believe this.”

It’s been a few days or so since your adventure in Metropolis. When you got back to school on Wednesday, both you and Madison had been so quickly inundated with grad work that you’d hardly had time to say hi to each other, much less debrief on your long weekends. Friday was a rare afternoon off, and the two of you had decided to hang out for a bit before you went back to work. Once Madison told you about her girlfriend’s new cat, and her next weekend plans, and inquired about your weekend, you’d blurted out what happened that early Saturday morning.

“So…you were just hanging around that night and thought to yourself, ‘self? let’s go snatch a couple orgasms from the terrifying Falcone minion.’ Jesus Christ, Mar. I wanna be like you when I grow up.”

“That’s not exactly what happened,” you reply, gnawing on your bottom lip. You debated even telling her all of this but considering the chain of events that led to it happening and considering that you kind of want it to happen again, you figure that she should know.

“So how exactly did it happen? He tripped and you fell on his face and oh no pussy on his eyebrows?” You laugh, despite yourself.

“No, he….I was in the car, he was driving me home…I dunno…we were joking and suddenly he was _there_ , and I just…kissed him, and then…”

“Oh my God,” Madison covers her eyes. “Madame, do not tell me that y’all was fuckin’ while he was driving. Calm yo’ ass—!”

“Madi, no,” you say, barely stifling your laugh. “He pulled over, but that’s not the point. I mean. I…I don’t know…I’m fucking freaking out, I guess.”

“Understandable,” she says; she runs a hand through her medium length curly hair and huffs, her eyes darting across the pavement in front of her. “I mean…well…what do you want to happen here, exactly? Like…do you want to date him, or…?”

“I…don’t know…” you sigh. “Alfred asked me the same question, an—”

“You told Alfred about Victor?!”

“ _No_ , I just…I told him about everything but that, and he asked me if I was done. Like done with the whole mob business. And I don’t know. I’m not sure of anything. All I know is that…Victor. I like him. I like…being with him. I feel like I can…I can be myself around him.” You realize that Madison is now actively staring at you, her brows furrowed.

“Does that mean that you can’t be yourself around me?”

“No, that’s not what I mean, I mean that…fuck. I’m sorry, Madison it’s just…we, the two of us, have something. We’re not just roommates, we’re friends. You know stuff about me that I’ve never told anyone else. But there’s this whole other part of my life that I can’t talk to you about, because you wouldn’t understand. Not because you can’t understand, but…you don’t have the same level of life experience about it. But me and Victor…we…there’s a bond. There’s something about our thing that…” You trail off; what you feel when you think of him, now, is so big you’re not sure how to turn it into language anymore.

“You said that he was driving you home,” Madison began. You look up at her; she’s staring off into the middle distance. She doesn’t have that look of panic, but her eyes are a few degrees away from it. “Where was he driving you home from?”

You’d decided that she didn’t need the full story before you even decided to tell her. So you keep it as short as possible.

“Falcone needed my help. He was driving me over from his office.” Madison nods.

“Now,” Madison begins slowly, “I know I said, that if you wanted to, you could probably fuck him, and I meant that. But I’ll be honest, when I said that, I wasn’t thinking about the possibility of you like… _dating_ him.”

“Yeah,” you snort, “I figured.”

“But now that that is…if not on the table, then at least in the briefcase, I need to…Margo…sweetie, this is not a good idea. He’s dangerous. And yeah, _you’re_ dangerous, but he’s other level dangerous. He’s horse head in your bed dangerous. He’s get Bruce kidnapped because he murdered the wrong person dangerous. He’s…I’m running out of comparisons, but you know what I mean. How sustainable would a relationship be with him?”

“Madi,” you sigh, feeling tired all of a sudden. “I have no damn clue.”

“Well,” she replies, gently. “I think that’s the piece you need to sort out. Because yeah, wanting to be with someone is nice, _liking_ being with someone is even better, but Victor…you have no clue what the shape of that will be. And maybe the shape of that won’t work for you.”

“I don’t know,” you sigh. “Maybe I’m just…I don’t know, fuck. I’m confused. This is exhausting.”

“Margo,” Madison reaches for your hand, squeezes it. “I have a…your mom…all that stuff…have you ever talked to a therapist about it?”

Your heart freezes. “No, well…for their deaths and that, but none of the other stuff.” To be fair, you had; Thomas had you go in for a few sessions, but after the first one suggested that your mum was torturing you just for the thrill of it, you hadn’t gone back. The next therapist had been too astute; she’d seen right through your neuroses and suggested that maybe the darkest parts of your mother’s work appealed to you, and you’d gone home and announced to Thomas that not only were you done with therapy, but that if he made you go back, you’d never speak to him again. He’d been so surprised by your tear-streaked face that he’d consented.

“Well…I ask that to say…” Madison cleared her throat, then met your eyes. “Well…maybe you like Victor because there’s a part of you that wants… _that_.”

“That,” you reply; your voice threatens to shake.

“Yeah,” Madison replies, not understanding. “That life…some of the things you told me about training and how you described your weekend…you sounded… _happy_. Not that you aren’t happy about the other things you do. There was a light in your eyes that I’ve only seen when you talk about, I dunno…fuckin’ C++ or whatever.”

“It’s…I just…” You trail off again, words once again failing you. “Am I a bad person?”

“No,” Madison, says, firmly. “You’re not.”

“But sometimes,” you start. “Sometimes…I like it…I like it all too fucking much. And I fucking love that Falcone takes my mother’s legacy so fucking seriously that he just…he’ll take me at my word. And I’m scared that I don’t feel guilty about liking it. I don’t want to become…that…but the temptation is fucking _strong._ ” Madison squeezes your hand. You feel a heavy, gaping, hungry chasm in your chest, for a quick moment. Then you let out a rough sigh and slouch, rubbing your eyes.

“Goddamnit, I can’t think about this shit anymore.” Madison nods.

“Fair. So what are you actually doing this weekend, aside from having an existential crisis?” You let out a soft laugh.

“I dunno. Probably going to take a trip back to Wayne Manor. Martha’s planning the annual Wayne Foundation fundraiser and I’m supposed to be helping her with that.” Madison smiles.

“See, this is how I know you’re not a bad person,” she says. “Your eyes lit up when you said that,” she adds on, off your look. Your smile matches hers. Your heart swells a little. Best roommate, or best roommate?

“That’s a relief,” you laugh. “Did you get the invite, by the way?” She nods.

“I can’t come, though. Family trip back to Accra that Monday.”

“Awww,” you sigh. “Okay. I’ll forgive you if you bring me back shea butter.” Madison stands.

“Done. Now, I have to go, I called a newspaper staff meeting. Can’t be late. Call me this weekend, okay? If you need me. Or if you don’t. Just call me. Especially if Alfred’s making treacle tart.” You snort, rising to your feet.

“Will do.” She hugs you, and the two of you depart, going your respective ways.

You feel a little better, but you’re still so distraught, you don’t notice the two men trailing you.

 

 

“What are you wearing?” You look down at the caller ID before you raise your phone back to your face. You should have known.

“A look of utter abject unamusement. What are you wearing? Oh wait, lemme guess. Black.” Victor’s laugh sends a sharp jolt straight up your spine, then back down. You shiver.

“Where are you, sweetness?” You cast an eye over your shoulder, toward your cohort, clustered together as they attack a software bug. Your terminal sits, unoccupied, cursor blinking on the screen, waiting for you to return.

“Willoughby Hall. Working. Why?”

“I need you. I have something for you.”

“Vic, we don’t have that kind of relationship,” you start. He lets out another gravelly laugh.

“It’s from Don Falcone. He wants me to deliver it to you.” You chew lightly on your nail, deliberating.

“I’m gonna be leaving here in three hours. You can wait at my dorm.”

“What about Madison?”

“She’s staying with her girlfriend this weekend. So the room is clear.”

“I thought we didn’t have that kind of relationship, sweetness,” he teases. You roll your eyes, studiously ignoring the flutter in your stomach.

“Bye, Vic.”

“Don’t be late.”

“No promises.”

 

You’re late. You got deep into a coding overhaul and three hours turned into five at the blink of an eye. Worst part is, you didn’t even realize until Karen mentioned that the sun had gone down. You hurriedly dismiss yourself, collecting your things, and practically run down the hall to the elevator, pulling out your phone as you slam your thumb into the close button.

“Don’t leave the building,” he says when he picks up. “Fourth floor, end of the hall to the left.” You freeze. He hangs up. When the elevator goes to the first floor, you hit the fourth floor button, a floor above where you were.

Willoughby Hall has been under renovation for the better part of the semester; it’s only inconvenient during off hours; because construction only happens on weekends and nights. The primary renovations are on the fourth floor; the administration is aiming to move the computer banks out of the randomly assigned portions of the building and onto one central floor. It is one of their better ideas, you have to admit; the number of available screens per room is very limited and as a result it’s hard to coordinate programming sessions when you have five people in one computer room on the first floor, four on the sixth floor, and two on the third floor. You’re only sorry that it’s taking them this long to get it together; at this rate, the floor will be ready just in time for all of your cohort to graduate.

The elevator opens; you step out and turn to the left; the tarps separating each room gently wave in the slipstream of your walk, from the cool breeze flooding from the breezy evening through the glassless windows, until you finally get to the end of the hall, to the only room with a door. You smirk, because of course he’d pick the only bloody room with a door. Before you can even raise your hand to knock, the door swings open.

Victor stands in the threshold, his face still, and relaxed, his eyes going over you slowly. He reaches up, then, his hand going around the strap of the bag on your shoulder, and he pulls you forward, into the room, shutting the door behind you in one fluid movement.

He pushes you up against the wall next to the door, and his arm goes around your waist, pulling you against him, his palm drifting down to grab your ass. He leans into you, biting your bottom lip gently, pressing into you, sighing into a kiss.

“You’re late,” he whispers. You smirk, licking across his bottom lip.

“I called.”

“You didn’t.”

“I thought about it.” Victor hitches your leg up and around his hip.

“Doesn’t count,” he murmurs against your lips. You gasp as he grinds slow and sharp against you, making you shiver and gasp against his smirking mouth. His lips drop to your neck, and both palms go to the underside of your thighs, pulling you tight to him.

“Victor…” you sigh.

“Yes, sweetness?” He groans.

“Didn’t you have something for me?” He sighs against your collarbone, then bites it, sharply.

“I got a lot for you, gorgeous,” his lips glide across your skin until he reaches your lips again, shaking as he grinds against you, hard and steady. Before you can tell him to speed up, before you can tell him to touch you more, before you can shove him off you and onto one of the three tables in the room, he leans away, just enough to get his hand underneath your dress, and into your panties, his leather covered fingers gliding slowly against your slick slit. You keen, your legs tighten around his waist, your back arching, shoulder blades pressing into the wall behind you. Victor breathes hard into your mouth, biting your bottom lip softly. “You feel fucking magnificent.”

“Vict—”

“Wait,” he sighs. His tongue glides into your mouth, just as he slips two leather covered fingers into you. You clench around them, groaning as he slowly grinds the heel of his hand against your clit. He bites your bottom lip, huffs softly. “You were saying?” You wind your hips and his fingers sink deeper into you.

“Fuck me,” you groan. You feel his mouth against your collarbone and you shiver as he licks across it and up to your earlobe.

“This not enough for you, sweetness? You want more?” You nod into another kiss, whimpering as he twists his wrist, rolling your hips into it. “You wanna get fucked here or on the table?”

“Table,” you sigh. Victor’s fingers slide out of you and he grips the underside of both of your thighs again; he carries you over to the nearest table and lays you on it, presses you into it, presses himself along your body. His cock weighs against the apex of your thighs; you can’t suppress the soft whine that breaks out of you, as you feel the hard and heavy weight of him on your aching, wet core.

“What happened?” He groans against your neck. The question almost doesn’t register.

“What do you mean?”

“Your dreams,” his eyes meet yours, your noses touching. “What were they about?” You don’t respond and he looks up at you, eyes half lidded and twinkling. “That good, huh?”

“Shut up,” you reply. He nips on the hollow of your throat, making you shiver.

“What did I do, in your dreams?” His hand runs up your thigh to grip your ass. The leather feels amazing on your skin. You start to think, as if the memory of them weren’t dredged up at least once every two days.

“You…you kissed my neck.” He kisses you, then, his hands on your sides, biting down on the skin in the dip between your neck and shoulder. A lightning bolt rides down your spine and you let out a soft moan. His lips drop to your collarbone.

“You taste really fucking nice,” he sighs into your skin. You respond; at least you think so. A high pitched squeak might be a response in some language somewhere. A sharp bite and suction on the right side of your neck brings you back. Victor chuckles against your throat, tracking up the right side of your face to your jaw.

“Like that?” His soft, gravelly voice tickles your ear. You nod.

“Close enough,” you try to affect nonchalance, but his right hand finds your nipple and he pinches it, sharp, making your voice shake.

“What else?” You hear the smirk in Victor’s voice. You hate it. You’re too aroused to care.

“You kissed my stomach and bit my thighs.” Victor’s brow cocks, but he smirks as he moves lower, pulling you closer to the edge of the table, pulling your dress high enough to expose your stomach. He kisses the skin, his tongue dipping into your belly button, his gloved hand gripping your hips tight enough to bruise. He drags them down, on either side, pulling your panties down in the process, down and off your legs. He bites the inside of your thighs, licking his way up on each one, until he has you spread open, waiting for him, his eyes gleaming and hungry.

“What else?” His voice is low, dangerous. Your eyes meet his, and suddenly, you’ve had enough of this slow seduction shit.

“You flipped me over, held me down, and fucked me until I couldn’t move. Is that vivid enough for you?” Victor smirks down at you, his nails digging into your thighs. Then he pushes them further apart, a little further than you thought they could go.

“I don’t think that’s true, sweetness,” his voice like gravel wrapped in silk. He leans toward you, his eyes locked on yours, gnawing on his bottom lip until you feel his breath fanning across your clit. His left forearm presses onto your stomach, his right slipping off your thigh; to where, you don’t know.

But you’re sure you’re about to find out.

Victor’s cheek rests against the middle of your left thigh. He’s so close you can feel him _smirk_ , feel him _breathe_. “Do you wanna know what I think?” You measure your breath, willing your voice to stay steady.

“Do tell,” you exhale. You feel a feather light touch on the crease between your thigh and pelvis. He’s hovering right above your clit; you can’t see it, but you can _feel it._ You can _feel_ the breath ghosting across the sensitive, engorged skin.

“I think…” he stops, then lightly kisses your clit, sucking it a little as he draws away. You inhale, sharply, shivery, your back arching, then submitting as he elbows your closing thighs back to their open position. “…that I tortured you, a little first…” he slides his leather covered fingers around your opening, slick along your vulva. “…just like _this…_ ” his fingers plunge into you again, twisting his wrist as he finger fucks you. “… _mm_ …and like _this_ …” he leans forward, and you feel his tongue, warm and curious, probing your entrance, then slowly, surely, creeping up to your clit. You can’t suppress it, no matter how badly you want to; a plaintive, desperate whine creeps out of your throat.

“Fucking hell, Zsasz,” you whimper. His smugness doesn’t even matter right now. You’re clenching around his fingers. He’s almost—

His fingertips curl on an upthrust and everything goes white. You go rigid, like he’s stoked an electric current within you. It burns. It feels too good.

“ _Ooh…_ ” you feel him shift, hesitate. Then he does it again. Your toes curl, hard, heels raking against his thighs; you damn near rip a hole in your dress, your grip is so tight. “I think I found your g-spot. Lovely.” Suddenly his fingers are gone. Your head rises to meet his gaze; your protest dies in your throat as your eyes lock on his. He clamps his teeth on the gloved fingers of his right hand, and yanks it off. His left comes up…but then… _fuck_ , _then_ , he slides his pointer and middle finger into his mouth and sucks on the leather. He groans, his eyes slipping closed, his fingers inching out of his mouth, until he yanks it off with his teeth. “Let’s see if I can do that again.”

He takes both of your wrists into his right hand and pins them right above your head, hooks your left leg around his waist, and he leans forward, into you, dipping his head down at the last second to suck on the skin just above your collarbone.

“Vict—” You never get the opportunity to finish your thought. Victor pushes three fingers deep into your slickness, then curls them upward, the heel of his hand lightly gliding against your clit; you clench, tight around him, your right leg coming up, knees squeezing his waist. He muscles past the bind of your legs, stroking into you strong and hard. Words don’t come in any sensible, discernible order, they just flood out. You’re not even sure if it’s English.

You muster the strength, somehow, and clench around him, undulating your body, fucking yourself on his fingers, your breath coming in short staccato breaths. He gasps, softly; you smirk up at him.

“Come on, Zsasz,” you gasp. “I’m starting to get impatient.” His eyes narrow; your bottom lip is caught between your teeth; you throw your head back, as you keep riding his fingers, whimpering as his fingertips press into your g-spot. You’re almost there. You just have to—

You should have known, right then, that you’d be in trouble.

Zsasz yanks his fingers out of you and hauls you up, then turns, leans back and pulls you onto his lap. Instantly, his tongue is in your mouth and you’re both biting, clawing, pulling and ripping fabric. You bear down and grind against him, your knees and toes digging into the tabletop. You’re probably soaking the front of his dress pants but neither of you give a fuck. Zsasz gets a tight grip on the braids at the base of your head and pulls them, easing your head back, exposing your neck, then licks, bites, sucks at the skin on your throat, groaning as your head comes back up and you bite his bottom lip.

You reach down and unzip his pants, then grab his cock in an almost too tight grip, pulling him free of the tight material. He slaps your ass, hard, grabs it and pulls you up, positioning you right above him; if you drop, just a little, just a centimeter…goddamnit, you can _feel_ him, sheathed inside you already, filling you full to bursting, so tight you can feel him in the back of your _throat_. The idea alone is almost enough to get you off. _Almost_.

You try to sink down.

Victor’s eyes close, his grip tightens on your waist, stopping you.

“Fuck,” he hisses. His eyes meet yours. “I don’t have a condom.” You lean forward, smiling against his lips; bite down on them. Victor groans into your mouth, his arms wrapping around you.

“That’s alright,” you sigh. “We can do other things.” You slide your legs back, your feet hitting the ground; you lean out of his grasp, smiling at his furrowed look of confusion as you push his legs open. Then the realization comes.

“Angel…” his hands go around your waist again and he holds you up. “It’s—”

The elevator dings; the muffled sound of voices and work boots on new linoleum follows that in quick succession. The two of you freeze. Your eyes meet. Then Victor leans forward, pecks you on the nose and draws you to your full height.

“They’ll find us soon,” he whispers; you huff.

“Fine,” you sigh; you slip out of his grasp and sink between his legs. “I’ll be quick then.” Just as he opens his mouth to protest, you sink, your lips going around the tip and sliding down on him, and he groans, loudly. His hands go into your hair and he grips the back of your skull, resting there lightly as you bob up and down on him, his cock deliciously warm and hard on your tongue. God, he tastes amazing; he’s just south of too big for your mouth, but his resolve is finally weakening along with his protests and his grip on your hair, and you’re too thrilled by his breathy moans and expletive-filled encouragement to stop now. You catch glimpses of him as you peek up; he’s gnawing on his bottom lip, groaning every time you twist up on him, shivering with every moan from your throat.

“Fuck,” he sighs. “Wait, wait wai— _fuck_!” You ignore him; he’s getting close, you can feel it. Your hands run up his thighs and you hold his waist, bobbing your head up and down, as deep as you can stand to.

Something vibrates against your left wrist. He stiffens, then releases the back of your head immediately.

“ _Marguerite_ ,” he whispers. He gently tugs on your left hand, and you let go of his cock with a wet pop. He shivers as you rise to your feet again and stand between his legs. His left hand goes to your waist, his head drops against your sternum. He roots around in his pocket, then his phone is at his ear.

“Zsasz.” You can hear Carmine’s distinct cadence over the line, even if you can’t hear what he’s saying exactly; you force yourself to breathe quietly. “Yes, sir. She was detained, but I’m…with her now. Not yet. I’ll be on my way soon. My apologies. Yes, I’ll send her your regards. Yes sir.” He hangs up. Then looks up at you, ruefully.

“You made me late,” he says. You’re probably failing at hiding your disappointment, but so is he. Victor reaches between his legs; he shuts his eyes, briefly, his expression pained as he tucks himself back in, but when he opens them again, his face is calm. He lets you move closer to him, then, his hands possessively wrap around you, brushing your braids out of your face and over your shoulder. “Raincheck?”

You sigh, your head lolling back, pretending to think.

“Do I have a choice?” He shakes his head, immediately. You lean forward, lean onto his lap, and you grin against his lips, grinding against the erection you knew would still be there. “Are you sure, Vic?” He exhales, sharp, painfully; his hand drops to your ass, riding the wave of movement for a few seconds before he catches you around the waist to make you stop.

“I’m never late, angel. I have to go.” You sigh, pouting, then lean closer to kiss him again, sucking his bottom lip on the withdraw.

“Fine,” you smile. Victor huffs as you back away from him. You kneel to pick your underwear up off the floor.

“If it’s any consolation,” he begins; you look up and realize that he’s staring at your ass; his face is calm, but you notice that you now know how to read him, and that he has that hungry look in his eyes that tells you he’s desperate to pin you down and fuck you blind. His eyes go up to yours and he rises to his feet. “You’re making it really fucking difficult to say no.”

“Good,” you reply, airily. You lean over to pick up your discarded underwear from the table. “Now while you’re off doing whatever you’re doing, all you’ll be able to think about is me.” You look up at him, then, and smirk. “Wrapped around your cock. Riding you. Begging you to fuck me harder…biting…digging my nails into your shoulders…whispering in your ear…telling you exactly what I want you to do to me…”

Now, you knew that the object of this was to get him all riled up, but now you’re wound up again. So is he. Fuck…

“You have to go,” you say, clearing your throat. Victor pays you no mind. He pulls you into him, and kisses you, hard, desperate, biting your top lip.

“I’m going to get you alone, soon,” he whispers. “And when I do, you’re gonna regret toying with me like this, gorgeous.”

And then he lets you go, his expression, eyes, placid. Betraying nothing.

“Goodnight, Wayne.” He cooly turns toward the windows, then gestures to the door as he hoists himself up onto the open gap. “You can take the elevator, angel. Don Falcone sent you a gift with his warmest regards. I left it in your room.”

“Oh,” you say, then you grin. “And here I thought your dick was the delivery.” Victor halts, crouched on the outside ledge, stares at you over his shoulder; he smirks.

“Not this time around, sweetness. Be patient.”

“Fine,” you sigh. “Tell Don Falcone I said—”

“I will.” He jumps out on your “thank you”.

 

You let out a laugh as you enter your apartment and take in the spectacle; a massive bouquet of flowers, a riot of bright and fantastic colors, greets you, asserting itself over nearly half of your desk. It’s brilliant; there’s a part of you wondering how Victor managed to smuggle it and himself upstairs undetected. Next to it sits two cards. One from Falcone, a polite and appreciative message, reminding you that he owes you everything up to and including the moon. And another one, on a matte black card, in red lettering:

 

_Falcone let me pick the flowers. They’re not as pretty as you, but they get kinda close._

 

_-VZ_

 

Your heart leaps. For a moment, you completely forget about Madison’s talk, Alfred’s disappointment, and your anxiety. You even forget about Falcone. For a crystal clear moment, you think about what being with Victor would be like. 

And it feels fucking _good._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...it's been a while.
> 
> School got busy, then life got suckish, and now school is gonna get busy as fuck again, so I thought I'd hit y'all with a three chapter update before I disappear until spring break.
> 
> And oh my giddy aunt, thank you for the kudos and the lovely comments; those kept me motivated to keep writing even when I had schoolwork to do. I'm actually avoiding doing schoolwork to post this, which is terrible, but worth it. Y'all have been so patient. I hope you like it!
> 
> ALSO SHOUTOUT TO CLOAMA, WITHOUT WHOM THIS ENTIRE FIC WOULD NOT EXIST <3


	13. Honey & I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You look really good and Victor is really nervous.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Title: "Honey & I" by HAIM

You’re exhausted. Between working, knocking out your fall semester finals, and helping Martha plan this whole fete, you haven’t slept for more than a few hours per night in the last three weeks. Madison has been worried about you, thinking that you’re running yourself ragged. It probably doesn’t help that the few nights you have been able to get 8 hours, you spent dreaming about lying in the back of Victor’s car (or in your bed, or on the bookstore cafe’s counter, or once in the stacks of the library when you’d refused to leave without finishing a program beta) while he tongue fucks you. You don’t mind, it’s a perfect release in the middle of finals week, and dear fucking _Christ_ you know he’s good at it, but you’re starting to wonder. About him, what he wants from you, what this… _thing_ is.

It’s a stroke of luck that you’ve been so busy studying, planning, and working that you haven’t really had time to think _about_ Victor and the questions that Madison and Alfred raised. But now, with some idle time, and a moment to rest and think, a champagne flute between your fingers, you start to, unbidden.

This relationship is deeply impractical, you know it is. And it would be impossible to have in the way you’re accustomed to; you can’t exactly go on dates, or introduce him to your family. Not to mention, you’re being groomed to take over one of Wayne Enterprises’ Tech Divisions, and though there might be a chance, you’re sure you won’t be placed at the Gotham location. You’ll have to move. And you don’t expect that he’ll want to follow you.

Not that he should; this whole thing is new, and 100% malleable. You don’t even know if it’s exclusive, or if it’s anything more than just one time.

That’s unlikely, though; he promised he’d make you regret fucking with him. And he has yet to make good on it. Despite the fact that you’ve been sending him photos of yourself since, in various states of undress, the most recent one of you wearing the lingerie you have on under your very see-through dress. You were surprised when you saw it hanging in your closet; Martha’s picks for you are very modest most of the time. When you came downstairs with it on, she was quite pleased.

“I saw that one and it was so you I couldn’t not pull it,” she fluffed out the train for you then grinned, winking. “Though I notice you didn’t put on the slip I paired it with.” You shrugged, smiling.

“It didn’t match my jewelry,” you said, grinning. Martha shook her head, smiling as she adjusted the gold garland nestled in your braids just as Thomas entered. He laughed.

“We’re taking no prisoners this year, I see,” he said, raising his hand, which you high fived in response. “You look obscenely beautiful, to no one’s surprise. They’re going to be falling all over you all night.” You shrugged as Martha handed him her purse and handed you a fur stole to toss over your shoulders.

“As long as that means they donate, I’ll bear it with a smile,” you said. “And if our charitable giving shoots up this year, thank Martha for picking this one out.”

You’d gotten a very… _enthusiastic_ response from many of the attendees so far. More or less from everyone except for the person you’d hoped to get one from. He didn’t respond to the last photo you sent. His responses to them so far had been extremely detailed and explicit descriptions of how he was going to make you pay. But even after you’d gotten dressed, and done your hair and makeup, all the way up to when you’d last checked your phone before you’d pulled up to the museum, he hadn’t responded.You hope you hadn’t gone too far, somehow. Maybe he was tired of being teased with no payoff.

“You’ve always been too hot to look as worried as you do.” You turn and your eyes land on a tall, broad shouldered white man. He smiles down at you and you smile in return, marshaling your energy.

“Parker, hey,” you say. Parker Lede went to undergrad with you; he’s a descendent of one of the First Families. That, combined with his smarmy personality, kind of makes you think he wants to get with you just to shore up his social power. Unfortunately for you, you made a bet with Thomas that you’d be able to get at least an extra $500,000 in donations to the Gotham Orphanage before him though, so you turn on the charm.

“Hey, pretty girl,” Parker grins as he pulls you into a hug and you oblige, trying not to tense up. He leans away to look at you and you smile wider. “You look stressed.”

“Well, it’s been a stressful semester for me, y’know…”

“Awww,” he says, lightly knocking you on the chin. “Sounds like someone needs a quick jaunt to the Maldives.” You force a laugh.

“I’ve never been a winter in the tropics kind of girl, to be honest,” you reply.

“Scotland, then? Toronto for the weekend?” Jesus _Christ_. Hint taking never really was his strong suit.

“You wanna take me away from all this?” You half-laugh.

Parker leans in and gives you a dazzling grin, one that you’re sure charmed the skirt off of more than one of your classmates. You can’t blame them; if you hadn’t been friends with a few of his exes in high school, you’d be charmed too. “I’m dying to, pretty girl.” His little nickname for you makes you bristle, a little. You feel a polite but pointed barb rise in your throat. But luck is on your side.

Not thinking about Victor, for at least the last few minutes, doesn’t prepare you, when you’re in the middle of a conversation with a potential donor, and you feel a hand brace against your lower back.

“Marguerite.” You jump, and look over your shoulder at him. Hot. _Damn_. He’s dressed in all an black tuxedo, sleek, sharp, and tailored, with a slim gunmetal grey tie bar and bullet shaped cufflinks, suspenders hanging near his knees, and pristine matte black Dr. Martens on his feet. He looks _good_. He knows it, that little smirk on his face is a dead giveaway. And goddamnit, he coordinated his accessories with yours. And you’re not mad at it at all.

 

When Falcone decides to go to one of those shitty high society galas, Victor, for once, isn’t unbelievably grumpy about it, quite the contrary. But it has nothing to do with you, this new, interesting step the two of you have taken, and definitely nothing to do with the photos you’ve been sending him for the past week and a half. So what he spent his day deep-cleaning his place, changing his bedsheets, and burned a few extra minutes to an hour choosing a suit and painstakingly deciding which color and shaped cufflinks to go with…it’s all in service of making Falcone look good. It has nothing at all to do with the fact that they’re currently heading to a Wayne function and that you sent him a photo mid-suit search that made him want to throw his phone out of his window then fill it with bullets before it hit the ground. He’s not nervous or more jittery than usual at all. Falcone mentions this as they ride toward the Gotham Museum.

“You know how much I love free shrimp,” Victor says. Falcone smirks.

“Are you sure it has nothing to do with the fact that Marguerite Wayne is also attending?”

“She shows up to all of these…things,” Victor replies, his eyes going over the streetlamps. It’s true; Thomas, even before you were adopted, always encouraged your parents to let you come to the charity galas. Partially because you liked them so much, and mostly because you were so cute you always managed to charm an extra hundred thousand out of Gotham’s elite for whatever cause was being championed that night.

“Not all of them, not in the past year or so. She always manages to turn up for the Carmen Freeman Memorial Dinner though. I wonder why.” Falcone lets out a soft chuckle as Victor meets his gaze.

“I’m not sure. It defies explanation.” Falcone laughs a little louder.

“Is that a new suit?” Falcone says, after a little while.

“No.” Yes, it is. But it _technically_ isn’t; he’d panicked twenty minutes into his suit selection earlier and called his tailor to rush him a tux he’d ordered for a Falcone family event two months from now. He’d already _paid_ for it, so it didn’t count as _new_ , not _really_.

“It’s quite nice. Very appropriate. I’m sure Marguerite would approve.”

“I didn’t do it for her.” Yes, he did.

Victor wouldn’t tell you to your face, but he thinks about you a lot, now. Way more than he should. He sometimes thinks about you when he’s leaving a job for Falcone, and wonders what you might be doing. Or in the middle of the night, when he’s waiting for his next mark, or lying in bed, he thinks about you. Wonders if you’re staring up at the sky and counting the stars to fall asleep.

Carmine hums, nodding, falling into silence until they arrive at the Gotham Museum. Victor takes in the garland adorned statues in the entrance, smiling to himself a little; there’s an artist in Central City, Rashawna Wright, who does paintings of black women in Renaissance art styles (much like Kehinde Wiley, you explained to him once, during one of your breaks at the bookstore; Victor remembers, very vividly, trying to simultaneously absorb what you were saying and memorize how the light played across your cheeks at the same time); there’s a famous one, where she painted Sarah Baartman as Venus De Milo, with billowing fabric draped across her body and a golden garland of olive branches sitting on a crown of 4c hair. You have a reproduction of it hanging in your room above your bed; he saw it when he visited you for the first time. The garlands look exactly like the one in the painting. It wouldn’t surprise him if you’d commissioned them from Wright to begin with.

Sure enough, he notices after he and Carmine enter the main hall, where the ball and charity auction are being held, that there’s a whole section of Wright’s art up for auction, including the garlands draped over the statues. He’s pleased; he can clock your aesthetic from a million miles away.

Carmine knows by now; he indulges Victor’s oft boredom-motivated impulse to wander during these galas.So it’s not strange that, when you eventually enter, you and Thomas Wayne flanking Martha Wayne, he’s across the room from Carmine, beyond earshot but within eyeline. That doesn’t matter though, because it’s clear all Victor sees is you.

He sucks in a sharp, slightly audible breath as he takes you in. Were he not in public, he’d be entirely stopped in his tracks. You’re dressed in a billowing, floor-length, grey and silvery grey see-through gown, gorgeous, delicate leaf embroidery laid out in patterns all over, trailing from the greyish-blue leaves covering your chest on either side of the plunging-to-navel neckline, to the bronze and silver leaf belt cinched at your waist, down to the silvery grey flower motif at the hem, briefly obscuring your well-heeled, red bottomed feet as you walk, a subtle, flower-like fluff of tulle sitting on each of your shoulders. Your lips are a soft, matte maroon color, your braids swept up in stunning knots and twists, one of Wright’s garlands nestled in like a circlet crown.

The broad stretch of your back is exposed, beautiful sun-kissed brown skin tempting him, a beautiful and dramatic train spilling down from your lower back; underneath the dress, you’re wearing the expensive-looking skin tone colored bra and garter set with matching stockings he saw in the photo earlier. Fucking hell, you _glimmer_ ; it’s insane, how good you look, and complete madness, how hot it’s making him.

He knows you by now, knows all of your tricks and cues; watching you with relaxed disinterest the previous years is paying off well right now. Right now, you’re standing by a column chatting with a group of motherfuckers who’re probably richer than God his fucking self, and based on the way you’re toying with the champagne flute in your hands, Victor can tell you’re just moments away from getting at least three to sign over a sizable portion of their trust funds to some abused orphan cats or whatever the fuck. Your smile is dazzling as you playfully swat at a man’s shoulder. 

“Victor? _Victor_.” He snaps back to attention. Carmine’s standing at his elbow, two glasses of whiskey in his hands; he looks amused, but presses on. “You look like you need a drink.” Victor nods, murmurs a thank you as he accepts the glass. His hands are a little shaky as he raises it to his lips. He’s…nervous. Why is he nervous? It’s just you…looking more ethereal than usual…your smile more effervescent than usual…probably smelling ten times better than usual…all things which he thought would be goddamn impossible, yet somehow you fucking managed, with your beautiful, perfect, stunning ass.

He barely pays attention as he trails Falcone around the room, nodding politely at the people he’s introduced to, surreptitiously watching you out of the corner of his eye as you mingle. How do you do it, this social butterfly thing? It’s in magnificent contrast to the woman you were in Metropolis, to the woman he’s come to know; you blend in effortlessly, lose yourself in shadows, strike like a slim blade between the ribs, then melt back into the darkness. Even outside the club, in that fucking _dress_ (that Victor still dreams about, goddamn did you look fucking amazing and _know_ it), you struck, like a flint stone, a blinding, perfect spark, then disappeared; never lingering in the mind for longer than you needed to.

Here? You’re the center of it all; the firelight in the middle of the forest that everything living feels compelled to draw near. Before he knew you, really knew you, when all he had of you was that night on the roof, he almost resented it. You were a dilettante to him then; shaping people into things that you wanted to interact with, making people clamor to impress you, to want to please you, to _want_ you. But now he sees you; he _sees_ you, shifting, quietly, subtly, turning into someone the person you’re speaking to expects you to be, then turning that expectation on it’s head. Luring them into that shadow shape of you, trapping them before they can dig deeper, before they could know to dig deeper.

Mario, and every person that fell in love with you in high school fell into it too. He hadn’t mentioned this when he told you, but before you kissed him, after your eyes flickered down to his mouth, after you bit your bottom lip and smirked, your hands cupping his face, your eyes met his. And he saw…something. Not…confusion, not exactly. Not emptiness, either. Something like you were hovering on the edge of the void. Something like…cold, clinging, desperate to feel something real. He saw all of your neuroses, all of your fear, and doubt, and your burning desire to drown it before it drowned you.

And you’re not that, not anymore. Not exactly. You’re close to all of these women you’re pretending to be, close to that reckless, lost girl on the roof, but not exactly. You’re complicated, messy, guarded, clever, so sweetly vulnerable and soft, but sharp, funny.

Beautiful.

“I need a top up,” he finds himself saying. He meets Carmine’s eyes, inclines his head as he tips his glass toward Carmine’s. Carmine shakes his head, and returns to speaking to the head of the GCPD Union. Victor politely excuses himself, dodges two waiters, then walks toward the crudite table, depositing his glass as he goes. When Carmine is out of his eyeline, he turns toward you. You’re standing on the other side of the cavernous hall, by one of the statues, a champagne flute in your hand. Victor makes his way over, straightening out his cuffs as he goes. When he gets halfway to you, a tall, broad shouldered, generically handsome _bastard_ comes out of fucking _nowhere_ and grabs your attention. You look up at him, startled for a quick second, before you turn back on, smiling up at him, wincing into his hug. Your fingers trail across your bare collarbone as you force a laugh. Victor’s chest tightens, he feels a light flutter of rage; of course this motherfucker can’t tell your fake laugh from your real one. Of course he can’t see your defensive posture as you try to turn the charm on. You’re struggling to; either he underestimated how exhausted you must be or you fucking _hate_ this man. That could change things; he’ll factor that in later.

He catches some of your conversation as he stops just behind you, an arm’s length away.

“…to take me away from all this?” You laugh.

“I’m dying to, pretty girl,” the man responds. Victor rolls his eyes, then steps forward, reaches out, touches the skin just underneath your bra band. 

“Marguerite,” he murmurs in your ear. You jump against his hand and turn to look at him, your eyes brightening as they alight on his face.

“Victor,” you smile, then turn back to the man and gesture to him. “Parker Lede, Victor Zsasz.” Parker nods and holds out his hand to shake Victor’s. He just smiles and doesn’t take it, then turns back to look at you.

“Mr. Falcone would like a word with you,” he leans into your neck, his arm subtly going around your waist. He watches you, pleased as he feels a shiver rattle your body. You smile and excuse yourself, allowing him to lead you away. He guides you around the crowds of people, out of Parker’s sightline.

“Trying to make me jealous?” He says, his gloved hand moving from your back to your hip. You meet his gaze, smiling mischievously.

“Me? _Never._ I didn’t even know you’d be here to _see_ me flirting with other men.” His eyes narrow and your smile gets a little wider. 

“I’m going to make you pay for that later,” he murmurs, quickly and lightly slapping your ass. You full stop and turn toward him. Victor’s eyes trail across you.

“Care to share how, Vic?” You grin. It takes every yard of his self control not to rip your dress off of you right then and there. Mother, fucking, _hell_ , you’re gorgeous. You’re, if possible, fucking _finer_ in light of knowing you better. Knowing what you like to eat for breakfast, how you dress bullet wounds, how you wrap your hair at night, to make it look like that and smell so good, makes you more stunning, as a result. He wants to stain his skin with your lipstick. He wants to press you into the wall, strip you down to that lovey, pretty underwear, make you beg him for it.

But he doesn’t. He moves a little closer to you, not enough to be conspicuous in a room filled with so many people, but enough that when his hand skims down your side to your hip, when his eyes flicker across your collarbone, when your breath hitches, and he feels your body heat and smells your hair and your perfume, he has to shut his eyes, briefly, just to stop himself from shoving his tongue down your throat. He opens his eyes again, and he can see your arousal painted all over your face.

“Sweetness,” he murmurs, his voice gravelly, deeper. “All you need to know is this. You will hurt, and you will like it.”

 

Goosebumps erupt across your skin. He smirks down at you and you feel a chill run down your spine. You want to kiss him; it’d be so easy to just…reach. Pull him down to your mouth. Your fingers twitch; your hand comes up.

“Margo,” Victor immediately pulls away and turns just as Thomas and Carmine arrive at your side. Thomas nudges your shoulder. “I hope you’re making inroads, because I’m cleaning up. Mr. Falcone has pledged $300,000 to help with the renovations.” You smile up at him.

“How generous! Thank you, Mr. Falcone,” you say. Thomas directs his attention to Victor. “Oh, forgive me, we’re being rude. Thomas, this is Victor Zsasz, he works for Mr. Falcone.” Thomas extends his hand.

“Ah yes, you were here last year. I remember your name from the donation roster. How lovely to see you again.” To your surprise, Victor breaks into a grin and takes Thomas’s hand.

“A pleasure, Mr. Wayne. I’m always glad to assist a good cause. In fact, Ms. Elliot here just talked me into donating $250,000.” You blink, then try not to look surprised when Thomas looks at you.

“I practically twisted his arm,” you say, smiling a little.

“I doubt it,” Carmine chuckles. “Victor being the good Catholic.” You can only see his profile, but you can sense Victor shift next to you. Thomas smiles.

“I can’t resist the lure of good works,” he replies, his mouth tight at the corners.

“No wonder Carmine hired you,” you tease, lightly touching his shoulder. Some of the tension in his body dissipates.

“Ah, yes, what is it you do, Mr. Zsasz?” You and Carmine look at each other. Victor, to his eternal credit, doesn’t even miss a beat.

“Head of security,” he replies.

“Ah.”

“I pay my protection well,” Carmine replies. You hold Thomas’s shoulder.

“I hate to be rude, but I should be checking in with Martha, seeing how the silent auction is going. Carmine, it was a pleasure to see you again. Mr. Zsasz as well.”

You glide away from Thomas, Victor, and Carmine and you pause by one of the columns to catch your breath. You feel a little bad for abandoning Victor with his boss and Thomas, but you figured he’d know how to excuse himself, and you did need to check on the proceedings of the silent auction soon.

You know people are looking at you. You don’t particularly enjoy it, not like you used to when you were a kid, but you know you have a skill. You can lure money out of Gotham’s elite like no one’s ever seen, and you’d rather do it for charity than anyone else. You take a deep breath, brush your skirt down, and psych yourself up to turn the charm back on.

Something… _something_ makes you pause. You turn to your left and meet Victor’s gaze. Shivers erupt all over; he’s looking at you like he can still taste you on his lips and he wants more. You smirk, then turn, abruptly, walking toward the back of the cavernous room, and turn left down the hall. You walk past one exhibit after the other, heading toward the manager’s office at the end. He gave both you and Martha express permission to use it as much as you needed, and you have been, for official means. This probably isn’t what he meant, but he doesn’t have to know, you muse, a grin spreading across your face. You get halfway down the hall before you feel a hand around your wrist and get yanked to your right. You stumble into a dimly lit exhibit and feel a hand clamp down on your mouth. You catch a strong whiff of pine and relax as Victor pulls you close to him and out of sight of the entrance.

“Shhh,” he murmurs. “We wouldn’t want them to know we’re here.” Victor’s hand drops from your mouth, down to your neck, and he nudges your head toward him, his lips pressing against yours. You sigh, his tongue sliding against yours, and you turn in his arms, kicking your heels off as you go. His hands skim down your back, then to your hips as he slowly gathers the soft material in his hands. Alarm bells go off in your head. You pull away from him.

“Not here,” you whisper. “Too many—” He pulls you toward him and gently bites down on your bottom lip, rotating until you’re pressed between him and the wall.

“Yes, here. Right here,” he whispers. “Don’t get too loud.” Well, you tried. He pulls up your skirt, his fingers skimming across the lace tops of your stockings, and slips his fingers between your thighs, his fingers brushing against your fabric covered clit. He pushes your panties out of the way and slowly slides two of his fingers into you. You let out a sharp moan. He grins against your neck as he strokes into you.

“I do remember saying ‘don’t get too loud,’ sweetness.” Your eyes flutter closed. He sinks the fingers of his free hand into your thigh and hitches up your leg. “Not unless you’d like to have an audience of Gotham’s elite present. Open your eyes.” You let out a soft moan, your eyes half opening. He presses his fingers into you, his thumb circling your clit, then he pulls out, slowly, his fingers fluttering as he does. Your knees tremble as he brings his fingers to his lips, licking them, his eyes fixed on you.

“ _Fuuuck_ ,” he groans. You can hear a group of people laughing at the other end of the hall, far closer than you’d prefer. Victor looks at you and runs his thumb over your lips. “I’ll have to be swifter than I’d like. Cover your mouth.” He drops to his knees and pulls your panties down and off your legs, then sits your thigh on his shoulder. He kisses and bites the bare skin leading to the apex of your legs, then licks at your slit. His tongue is warm, soft, insistent as it slips underneath your swollen hood and touches the tip of your clit. You gasp sharply, pressing one hand to your mouth and the other to the top of Victor’s head. He hums.

“I haven’t even properly started yet,” he chuckles. You glare down at him.

“Do you plan on starting, or should I just collect my pants and—” Victor’s tongue swirls around your clit and you suck in a sharp breath.

“Sorry, what was that?” He whispers, cupping his ear.

“Keep going or I’m going to hurt you,” you hiss. He dips his head back down and sucks. You throw your head back and your teeth clamp down on the skin between your thumb and pointer finger. Victor squeezes your thigh and presses you into the wall. He slides two, then three fingers into you and pumps, excruciatingly slow. You can’t help but squirm; a sharp whine bubbling up in your throat. He hums again, pumps faster.

“I could have sworn I saw her going this way.” Victor freezes. Your heart flies into your throat. You could see the silhouette of Thomas, and what looks like Parker Lede standing just beyond the threshold, standing in the hall. A sharp slap goes across your thigh and you look down. Victor stares up at you, eyes twinkling.

“She has to be here somewhere, if not in the office,” Thomas replies.

“I haven’t scared her off, have I?” Parker jokes. Your eyes dart down. Victor stares up at you, watching you.

“I’m sure you’re fine,” Thomas laughs. “Marguerite speaks very highly of you.” Victor’s hand twitches against you; you gasp, softly.

“Did you hear that?” Thomas says. Victor eases your leg off his shoulder and stands. He slides his tongue into your mouth as you grip his shoulders, his fingers twisting as they move in you, his thumb going across your clit.

“Hear what?”

“You didn’t hear that?” Thomas goes on. His silhouette turns left and right. Victor breaks away from your mouth.

“I haven’t heard anything,” Parker says. He takes a step; you see his arm waving in the exhibit entrance. 

“Maybe it was nothing,” Thomas says. His silhouette turns to face the exhibit; you can see his shadow in your periphery. 

You clench around Victor’s fingers as he slowly draws them out of you, presses his thumb against your sensitive, overstimulated clit one last time. You hiss against his mouth, biting his bottom lip involuntarily. He grunts into your mouth, wraps his hands around your thighs and suddenly your feet are off the ground, your legs around his waist, your back pressed against a thousand dollar frame and a million dollar Degas, his smirking lips against yours, licking into your open mouth.

“…ow, I haven’t seen that guy who works for Falcone in a minute either,” Parker says.

“You don’t think—?” Parker begins. Victor exhales as he breaks away; your breath is heavy; he’s holding you tight against him; he’s unbelievably, gloriously hard. You’re an inch away from begging him to fuck you, Thomas and Parker be damned.

“Oh no,” Thomas says hastily. “I don’t think they’re each other’s type.”

“Stranger things have happened,”He replies. You can see the shine on Parker’s shoes out of the corner of your eye, just over Victor’s shoulder. Your gaze flickers down to Victor’s eyes, calm, half-lidded, watching you.

“Nothing as strange as that will ever happen, trust me,” Thomas says. “We still haven’t checked the gardens.” The two of you hold still as they walk down the hall toward the office and left to the botanical garden. Victor sets you on your feet and releases the layers of your dress. Your knees are a bit shaky; you hold his shoulders to steady you.

“Too close,” You murmur.

“That’s an opinion,” Victor replies, grinning. He raises his hand, still slick with you, to his lips and slides his fingers into his mouth. You’re dewy and warm all over again as he meets your eyes and tastes you on his fingertips. You grab his lapels and pull him toward you, pushing your mouth against his, turning to shove him against the wall. You bite his bottom lip and he groans, again, letting out a soft, wounded sigh as your hand trails down to his hard cock.

“Are you going to fuck me or am I going have to go out there and find Parker Lede?” You murmur. Victor’s eyes narrow to sharp slits.

“You wouldn’t fucking dare,” he replies, leaning toward you. You release his jacket and move backwards.

“Try me,” you say, whirling around to the exit. You just make it past the threshold when you feel him grab your arm and spin you around. He presses you against the wall next to the exit and kisses you, softly, licking along your bottom lip, cupping your face. You can taste yourself on his lips again. You sigh into his mouth and grip his jacket, pulling him closer to you.

“If you’re going to insist, I’m happy to oblige,” he says, smirking. His hands trail, down from your face, your neck, then to your sides, across your bare back. “I’ve been thinking about getting this pretty dress off you all fucking night…seeing you in this nice lingerie in person…” You press your palms against his chest, and open up his jacket, then start on the buttons of his vest.

“No time like the present,” you sigh, gently biting his bottom lip.

“Mm, no,” he whispers; he squeezes your ass through your dress. “If I’m gonna fuck you the way you want me to fuck you, I’m going to need time, space, and opportunity.” You groan as he noses his way down to your throat, kissing and biting your bare skin. Your mind races.

“I’m out for break for a month. The Waynes are leaving for Aspen for three weeks tonight.”

“Time,” he murmurs against your neck. You sigh.

“I’m supposed to be keeping an eye on the manor while Alfred goes on vacation, but I’m sure no one will notice if I just…kip off a couple nights.”

“Space,” he sighs against your collarbone, lightly nipping against your skin. He’s squeezing your ass, reveling in how it bounces as he releases it. You rub against him through his tight tuxedo pants. He’s hard and heavy against you. It makes your mouth water just to think of it.

“How quickly can pick me up from the dorms after this?” Your hand slides underneath his jacket, gripping his back, then sliding down to his ass, your other hand pulling his zipper down and slipping in to stroke his length. His breath is shaky against your neck.

“10 minutes to his office, 8 ½ to take him home, 15 to the campus,” he rattles off, gently biting your bottom lip. You grin, pulling your panties out of his back pocket, and pushing him away from you.

“Opportunity,” you reply, smirking at him.

Victor watches you, hungrily, as you pull your panties back on and slide into your heels. You reach for him, pull him down to your mouth, lightly sucking his bottom lip as you pull away.

Victor checks his watch as he pulls his zipper up and his gloves back on, then looks at you, his eyes tracking over your perfect, freckled brown cheeks, your hair only slightly askew.

“11:16,” he murmurs, reaching to swipe your lipstick from the corner of your mouth, his thumb brushing over your lips. His hand goes around the back of your neck and pulls you into him, his kiss heated and tender. You’re lightheaded, warm all over when he breaks away. “I’m ready when you are,” he laughs, pinching your chin. You grin, softly. Fuck, he has a great smile.

“Be at the dorms at 1:30 on the dot, then,” you manage to reply, floating out of the exhibit. You turn to look at him, grinning, and he sees that same hungry look in your eye as you meet his. “Or…well, I’m sure Parker Lede won’t be opposed to keeping me company tonight instead.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know. Suffice to say a lot has happened since my last update. But like Ms Celie, I'm here! And I'm gonna be here a bunch more times before the summer ends.
> 
> I think we're actually nearing the halfway point on this particular part of the story I want to tell. Which is exciting!
> 
> Thank you to everyone who has been reading and leaving comments and kudos. I appreciate the love!
> 
> By the by, if you want to know what the dress looks like, it's Look 34: https://www.vogue.com/fashion-shows/fall-2017-couture/zuhair-murad#collection
> 
> And here it is in motion, look for it at 10:54: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dgvkacsJqok&t=667s


	14. Stress

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Life comes at you fast.  
> About as fast as Victor can swing a pipe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Title: "Stress" by Justice

You feel light in a way you haven’t in weeks. Hell, you’re almost not even tired anymore. You want to skip toward Martha, but you stifle the impulse, instead tapping her on the shoulder. Martha smiles as she meets your eyes.

“Where have you been? Thomas and Parker have been looking for you.” You gesture toward the hall.

“I was…” your brain freezes for a moment. Thomas and Parker had just walked down the hall toward the gardens. “Honestly, I ducked outside for a minute,” you finish, sighing. “The attention is getting to be a bit much.” Martha pats you on the hand.

“It’s alright,” she says. “In any case, the night’s almost over. Alfred and Bruce are already on their way with the suitcases, and pretty soon you’ll be able to wrap things up here, go home, and sleep for three weeks.”

You laugh. “I’m looking forward to that.” Martha watches your face.

“Are you sure you don’t want to come to Aspen? You can sleep all day while the rest of us ski. It’ll be easier for you to dodge Parker Lede if you’re not in the same time zone,” Martha jokes. “And I know Bruce has been dying to talk to you about Aristotle.”

You sigh. “God, how I want to, but I can’t. I really just need to rest. And once I get to Aspen and see the ski lift any plans for sleep will be shot.” You’d also have to break your dick appointment with Victor, but Martha doesn’t need to know that. _Ever_. She nods.

“Understandable. You’ve been working so hard. I’m proud of you, dear.” Your heart hurts, just a bit, but you can’t help but smile at that.

“Thank you, Martha,” you say; you can feel tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. She reaches up to fix your hair, then cups your cheek.

“God, I know you must be tired of hearing this, but you look _so much_ like Carmen,” You nod, smiling wider at that.

“A bit, but it always helps to hear it.” Martha sweeps you into a warm hug, and you reciprocate it, trying your damnedest not to let your tears run down your face.

“I hope you know your parents would be madly proud of you as well.”

“It helps to hear that too.” Martha kisses you on the forehead.

“There you are!” Thomas says, hugging her around the waist. “Where’d you pop off to?”

“Somewhere where you couldn’t lead Parker straight to her,” Martha cracks, smiling up at him. Thomas’s eyes turn to you, anxiety all over his face.

“Were you not…” You shake your head, scrunching your face as you let out a laugh.

“He’s been bragging about his trust fund all night.” Thomas lets out a snort.

“I'm so sorry, kid,” he says, patting you on the shoulder. “You seemed like you liked him, so I may have encouraged him.” You sigh, already thinking of the dozens of run-ins you’ll have to avoid in order to get out of there without seeing him. Thomas shakes his head. “I did this, I’ll fix it.”

“No,” you reply. “I’ve been encouraging him. I’ll just…shut it down before he starts getting ideas.” You feel two skinny arms go around your waist, and you laugh, grabbing them. “Hi Bruce.” You turn in his arms; two big brown bright eyes look at you from under a mop of brown hair.

“Hi, Marguerite,” Bruce replies, squeezing a bit tighter, then letting go. He’s wearing a thick winter jacket and heavy boots. You ruffle his hair gently. “I wish you were coming with us.”

“Me too Bruce, but,” you nudge him in the shoulder, “we have plenty of time to chat about _Sleep and Wakefulness_ when you get back.”

“I actually finished that a few days ago. I’m looking at _Nicomachean Ethics_ at the moment.” You grin, then look over at Thomas, who shrugs as he takes Martha’s hand.

“We’re just going to say goodbye to everyone, and we’ll be ready to leave,” Martha says, as Bruce hugs her. Thomas kisses him on the forehead and his parents waltz away. You turn to him.

“Why did the two of you make that face?” Bruce says. You grin.

“Because I was the same way when I was your age. Reading and learning and wanting to talk to people about it all. We’re a lot alike. We’re a lot like my dad too, he was an intellectual terror to Thomas when they were your age, that’s why he made that face.” Your heart begins to hurt a little. Bruce stares up at you, then hugs you again.

“I wish I could’ve known your parents,” Bruce says. You smile at him.

“Me too. You would’ve loved dad. And mum would’ve adored you. You’re brilliant.” Bruce smiles.

“I learned it from my older sister,” he replies. You flick his nose, gently.

“She sounds like a nightmare,” you laugh. He grabs at your hand again.

“I was looking for you!” You turn your head, your stomach sinking, to see Parker Lede, standing at your shoulder, grinning. You turn fully now, Bruce at your side, and smile mechanically.

“Parker, hello,” you gesture to Bruce standing next to you. “Bruce Wayne, Parker Lede.” Bruce holds out his free hand politely.

“How do you do?” He says. Parker takes his hand and kneels.

“Hiya Bruce,” he says, smiling a little too widely. “How’s it going?”

“Quite well, thank you. Yourself?” Parker grins up at you, a little chuckle on his lips before he turns back to Bruce.

“I’m good, buddy. So, uh…what grade are you in?” Bruce looks up at you, his gaze incredulous.

“I’m homeschooled, Mr. Lede,” he says, his eyes narrowing.

“Oh? What are you learning? Long division, names of the Presidents…?”

Bruce stares him down for a smooth 5 seconds, his piercing glare reminding you so much of Martha; it’s taking all the effort you can muster to not laugh.

“Jean-Paul Sartre’s embrace of Marxism and how his rejection of the popular communist party enhanced his understanding of the abuses perpetuated by the Soviet Union. But that’s after I finish my coloring book and drink all of my juice.” The look on Parker’s face as he rises from his crouch is fantastic and it almost pushes you over the edge. Before you can start laughing in his face, Martha and Thomas wrap their arms around you and squeeze.

“Oh,” Thomas says, his eyes meeting Parker’s. “I see you’ve met Bruce.”

“He has,” Bruce says, his eyes darting between you and Parker. You wrinkle your nose at him. Bruce and you have a secret code going. Nose wrinkles mean _not in front of the real adults_. He squints, briefly. _I hate him_. You purse your lips. _I know_.

“I…have. Leaving so soon?” He adds hastily, eyeing the coats in Thomas’s arms.

“Ah, yes. Martha, Bruce, and I. Margo, however, will be hanging around, wrapping things up…”

“Clearing the stragglers out of here as quickly as possible as the museum would like us to be gone before 1 am,” you add on, nudging him in the side. Thomas laughs.

“If you don’t mind,” Martha says, turning to Parker as Thomas slides her coat onto her shoulders, “we’d like to speak to her alone before we leave.”

Parker nods. “Of course, I’ll just…go take a look at one of the exhibits.” When he’s out of earshot, Bruce sighs and stares at you.

“He’s awful, Marguerite,” he takes your hand. “Break up with him immediately.” You let out a sharp laugh.

“We weren’t together to begin with, but I’m thankful for your vote of confidence, B,” you reply.

“He…hovers,” Martha says, watching him wander around the perimeter of the cavernous room, her eyes narrowing. “It’s so…irritating.”

“Yeah,” Thomas sighs, following him as well. “That was a bad call on my part. Sorry, Margo.” You see Victor and Carmine exit, Victor’s look at you unreadable, just as you turn to look at Thomas.

“Yeah yeah yeah,” you shoot back, smiling. “Get out of here before I try to escape with you.” Bruce hugs you one last time.

“Alfred wanted me to say that he misses you but he’ll see you when he gets back.”

“Of course he does,” you laugh, hugging him. Martha, Bruce, and Thomas say their farewells to you and depart. After that, it purely becomes a waiting game. With the main hosts gone, the last of the guests dwindle out in about twenty minutes. You get the cleaning company to pack up the leftovers and tables and start cleaning before you yawn, pulling off your heels and making your way toward the office in the back.

As you walk down the hall, you see a flash of movement and spin, holding your heels up, your exhaustion forgotten.

“Whoever’s there, come out or I will hurt you.” Parker emerges from the shadows, and you sigh, exasperated.

“Everyone else left 15 minutes ago, Parker. What are you doing here?” Parker smiles, moving toward you.

“Well…I just thought…since we were vibing and all…” You sigh, stepping out of his reach.

“We weren’t vibing, Parker,” you reply. “I was just being polite.”

“Excuse me?” He replies, his eyes narrowing. Your eyes track over him. Long reach, works out regularly, former rower, escalation likelihood hovering around 40%. You gesture vaguely.

“I just mean…I don’t have any romantic attraction to you. I thought that was self-evident. I’m sorry that I didn’t make it clearer.”

“You were flirting pretty hard not even two hours ago, Wayne,” He steps closer, and brushes his finger down your bare arm. You dip out of his reach. 65%.

_I wasn’t aware that I wasn’t allowed to change my mind, Parker_ , you’re about to snap. You want to snap; you’re stressed out, exhausted, and you’d really like to be in bed with Victor’s arms around you, his cock buried in you within the hour; but you know that you need to keep on friendly terms with this idiot, no matter how irritating he is to you.

Instead you say, “What are you looking for here, exactly?”

His eyes narrow. 80%. You grip your heels tighter, your exhausted body tensing. “We both know what I want,” he replies, lightly touching your chin. You pull away from him, again. “Last time I checked you wanted to give it to me.”

“Okay,” you sigh. “It’s obvious that this is no longer a productive conversation, and I’m exhausted. So please, leave.” Parker advances on you. You raise your heel, point first, and press it, just underneath his center shirt button.

“I’d rather not have to call museum security and have them force you out,” you say, your voice steady. “I’d rather just have them open the doors for you. Is it going to be the former or the latter?” Parker snorts, then shakes his head.

“Whatever, you’re not that hot anyway,” he adds on, turning to walk back down the hall. You follow him.

“Alex!” The man at the other side of the cavernous room perks up as Parker walks toward him. “Please let Mr. Lede out.” Alex nods as Parker walks imperiously past him. You roll your eyes.

“You thought I was pretty hot when you were trying to get into my pants earlier,” you snarl viciously, swanning back into the office.

You’re out of your dress (and your unbelievably uncomfortable bra and garter set) and back into your jeans and hoodie in 5 minutes flat. You pack your things into your duffle (you’ll hang your dress when you get to the manor), and start pulling hairpins out of your braids as you exit the office. You drop them into your leather jacket pocket and wander over to the information desk in the lobby. Charlie, your favorite security guard, is sitting at the desk, reading.

“What’s the quote tonight, Charles?” He looks up at you, then smiles, holding up the book to read.

“‘God does not play dice with the universe; He plays an ineffable game of His own devising, which might be compared, from the perspective of any of the other players [i.e. everybody], to being involved in an obscure and complex variant of poker in a pitch-dark room, with blank cards, for infinite stakes, with a Dealer who won't tell you the rules, and who smiles all the time.’” You squint; the quote sounds familiar in a distant way, like it’s something you knew a long time ago.

I’m thinking… _Good Omens_?” Charlie nods as he holds his hands out for the keys.

“Goodnight, Ms. Wayne,” you hand him the keys and tip your head as you walk toward the exit. Ross, another guard, lets you out, and you make a beeline straight for the parking lot, to the left of the building, down a shady lane, in front of the entrance to the gardens. You pick up the pace, when you reach the treeline, your hands sliding into your leather jacket to get your brass knuckles onto your fingers. A shadow moves in the corner of your eye. You jump, pausing, watching the treeline. You can hear your mother’s voice in your head: _feet moving under you, head on a swivel, don’t stop either unless something makes you._

You should have asked Ross to walk you to your car, you think, cursing yourself, but it’s too late now. You start walking again, faster this time, your head sweeping from one side to the other. You make it to the parking lot, your car is in sight, you start digging for your keys, prepping to jump in and drive away as quickly as possible.

A twig snaps behind you, and you whirl around, but before you can throw your arm up to block it, a nightstick cracks down on your temple and the world goes black.

 

 

It’s when it hits 1:46 am and he’s still sitting in your dorm alone that Victor realizes something is wrong. 

The ride from the museum back to Falcone’s office was mostly uneventful, as he was on the phone the entire time. But when he’d been driving him home from there Falcone spoke up from the backseat, a smile on his lips.

“I noticed Marguerite Wayne went missing for about 10 minutes toward the end,” Carmine says airily, stubbing out his cigar. Victor’s face is immoveable, his eyes fixed on the road.

“Did she,” he replies, flatly. Carmine smiles a bit wider.

“Right around the same time you did, Victor,” he continues. Victor can feel his eyes on the back of his head, but he doesn’t move, he fights to keep his tone even.

“Fascinating, Mr. Falcone.”

“You know,” Carmine continues after a moment. “I’m sure I’m not the only one who noticed. Thomas Wayne is not a stupid man. And we’re both well aware that she is the furthest thing from stupid too.”

“I’m not sure I’m understanding where you’re going with this Mr. Falcone.”

“Then let me be clear.” Falcone shifts forward in his seat until Victor can see him clearly in the rearview. “Marguerite Wayne is not the kind of woman a fling can be had with. She’s not just high society. She’s a Wayne by adoption and the last legitimate Elliot heir by birth. If you get in deep with her, there could be…unforeseen consequences.” Victor’s eyes meet Carmine’s in the mirror.

“I’m built for unforeseen consequences, Mr. Falcone,” he says. Carmine watches him for a long moment, then slides back into his reclined position.

“I know you are, Zsasz,” he murmurs.

When Victor said that, he wasn’t expecting unforeseen consequences to arise so quickly.

He rises from your bed, your suitcase sitting next to him, and checks his phone. You hadn’t sent him a text message or even called, which is something you were in the habit of doing when you knew you would be later than you anticipated. His eyes pan over the clean glass of the new window, and the answer hits him hard, almost knocks the wind out of him.

“Shit,” he murmurs, fists clenching. He bites his bottom lip, thinking; weighing and calculating, double checking. Then makes the most calculated and sensible decision available.

 

You wake, your sight blurry, your head aching ferociously. You try to move your hands, but can’t. Same with your legs. Your ribs hurt, badly. Not enough to be a break, but enough for you to be worried. When the roar of blood in your head subsides, you realize that someone is speaking.

“…just left her there. This shit is kidnapping. Aggravated. That’s a felony!”

There are ropes around your hands and feet. You can feel your toes, thank God.

“Fucking nut up, asshole. Do you really want to go around and have a bunch of motherfuckers talking shit about for the rest of your life?!”

You don’t want to move your head. Half from fear of a head or neck injury and half because you don’t want them to know you’re awake.

“Damien’s right, we should have just done her there and let her die.”

They didn’t cover your eyes, you’re just still disoriented. Your black jeans come into focus. Your knee stings. There’s something sticky on the side of your face.

“No fucking way. She’s not the only one who has shit coming. We need to know where the other bitch is too.”

“Even if we do kill her and the other one, someone’ll find out, and then we’re fucked!”

You wiggle your legs, just a bit. The chair they have you in doesn’t feel very sturdy.

“She’s a Wayne, Marcus. First fucking Families! Falcone said that Waynes—”

“Fuck Falcone! He let her get away with fucking us up. He let her live, made himself look weak. If _we_ have the balls to do what Falcone and Maroni won’t? What Ausiello couldn’t, and kill a Wayne? We’re viable players here!”

Your heartbeat spikes at that. You twitch.

“Maroni will—”

“She’s awake.” Someone’s nails dig into your hair and haul your head back. You hiss from the pain, the sudden light. The loan shark, the one who’s fingers you broke, stands over you, smirking. He releases your hair, then backhands you with his casted hand. The front of your face explodes with pain. Your head lolls to the side and hegrabs your hair again.

“Bet you thought you’d seen the last of us, huh bitch?” He snarls. He shoves your head back. You wince, your head swimming, the beginnings of a tension headache forming at the back of your skull. “That’s your bad luck.” You grin with a bravado you don’t fully feel.

“Yeah,” you say, your tongue thick with pain, “I was hoping I’d die before I had to see your fuck ugly faces ever again. Fate really isn’t on my side.”

“That’s an understatement, bitch,” he says, backhanding you again. “But if it’s any consolation, we’ll make sure you die soon.” Marcus, the ringleader, you realize, steps back.

One of the enforcers you beat up, Damien, steps forward, his forearm still in a cast from when you broke it. He pulls out a knife. Drops a seat in front of you. Slides into it. Opens up a knife. You shy away from it, when he waves it at you, smirking.

“I didn’t want it to be like this,” he says. “I wanted to just fuck you up and leave you to die in the parking lot. Straightforward, easy. But Marcus raises a good point, sweetheart. We don’t know where your fucking friend is and we would like to. So, here’s the offer. You tell us where she is, and I’ll kill you. Straightforward, easy, no pain. Like going in your sleep. You don’t, and I’ll let these two go to work on you, and trust me. That’s the opposite of easy.” He gestures to Marcus. “My boss likes shooting people in the kneecap. It’s not pleasant. Your choice, sweetheart.”

Your eyes flicker over to Greg, the only other person in the room. His face is pale, but when he looks at you, his gaze is colored by hatred. You know, no matter what you say, no amount of begging or manipulation will make him forget his humiliation at your hands. You curse yourself. All of that brilliant training your mother and Alfred put you through, and you’re gonna die at the hands of a petty-level loan shark and some shitty enforcers.

Your head is swimming. You’re terrified out of your mind. You hurt all over. But fuck, you’re still you. And despite any of your much praised common sense and survival instincts, bravado blasts right past logic and you open your mouth and say something very fucking stupid.

“How about you all get in a line and suck my dick,” you snarl.

You don’t have time to regret your stupidity.

Just as Marcus raises his cast to hit you again, a knock sounds at the door. Everyone freezes, looking at each other. Then Damien reaches into his back pocket, shoves his greasy bandanna into your mouth, and hands the knife to Greg.

“Stand near her and don’t take this shit off her neck,” he says, clumsily pulling out a gun. Marcus moves forward, pulling his own gun out of his pocket. He stops short at the door.

“Who the fuck is it?”

“The hitman on your former boss’s payroll, wondering why the fuck you have a business liability tied to a chair.” Greg’s eyes go wide with panic. Damien lets out a choked gasp. Marcus wastes no time. He aims his gun at the center of the door and empties the clip. Damien follows suit, the two of them in rapid succession empty two clips each into the door. The room falls silent. You can feel the cold of the blade jumping against your pulse. Marcus slowly moves forward to push the door open, the floor creaking under his feet.

The wood explodes inward, flying straight toward him and taking him to the ground. Victor is up in a flash, brandishing a pipe, and goes right for Damien, who’s struggling to reload his gun. Victor breaks his already broken arm again with a hard kick, then hits him hard in the ribs. Damien drops to his knees.

Victor’s face is blank and terrifying as he moves back toward Marcus, now groping for his gun amidst the wood splinters. Victor kicks it away from him, then nails him, square in the face with the thick metal pipe. Marcus files backward, his nose gushing blood. Victor hits him, again, and again, until he stops, Marcus’s chest still moving, his breathing ragged.

He whirls around to you in the seat. You realize, numbly, that Greg’s hand is shaking against your throat. He’s whimpering as he stands above you, holding the back of your neck, tilting your head up to expose your throat. You’re lightheaded; your neck aches. You can feel something dripping down your collarbone as Victor raises the pipe, his other hand whipping a gun out of his jacket.

“Listen—” Victor busts a shot in Damien’s kneecap, stopping him from rising to his feet before Greg can finish his sentence. Damien screams, guttural; the sound sends a jolt of pain straight from the wound above your brow to the base of your head. Greg jumps, your knife scraping against your neck. Victor moves forward. “Don’t come any…I swear I’ll—”

“I can end your life from here,” Victor says, his voice flat and emotionless. He aims the gun square at Greg’s forehead. “And if you kill her, I have no reason to keep you alive, other than to hurt you really fucking badly. Drop the knife.” Greg shakes, then the knife falls to the ground next to you. Victor flies forward, gets within arm’s length of Greg, then swings the pipe, hard and fast, directly above your head. You hear a thick crunch, and a dull thud behind you. Victor drops the pipe, his blank gaze shifting to you. His eyes soften. He crouches. Pulls the bandanna out of your mouth. Lightly touches your neck, where Greg cut you. He pulls his switchblade out of his pocket, cuts you loose. Sweeps you up into his arms.

“You’re late,” he says, simply. You sigh, sudden sobs threatening to burst out of your throat.

“I got tied up,” you manage, before you begin to cry. Victor carries you out of the decrepit building, to his car, and puts you in the passenger seat before you pass out again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's a second chapter on this update because I feel bad about taking so long and I don't want to leave the chapter count at 13.
> 
> I was tempted to leave y'all on a cliffhanger, but I'm not that mean. Lmao


	15. Spanish Sahara/Secret

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's all a blur. A hazy, painful, hot blur.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Title: "Spanish Sahara" by Foals & "Secret" by Maroon 5  
> Simply because I couldn't decide which one I liked more.

 

When you wake up later, you’re lying in your bed at Wayne Manor, your body sunken into the soft plush cushions and your thick comfy pillows. Your head aches, horribly. You groan as you try to turn over; your chest still hurts, and your body still aches. You feel hands on you, a palm underneath your ribcage as you get turned to your side. You feel soft cotton wrapped around a solid forearm under your palm.

“Try not to move too much,” Victor whispers against your neck. He sweeps your long braids out from underneath you and pulls your covers back over your shoulder. You drop back into sleep.

 

It’s dark, with the shades drawn, the only light in the room coming from the halo around your reading chair. You sigh, blinking slowly. Victor’s reading, by your bed. You try to squint, to make out the title, but your head is still rocked by your intense tension headache. You watch, too tired to move or speak, your head cradled in cushions, as Victor flicks through pages, his jacket off, his gun holster hanging across the arm of the chair.

“Go back to sleep,” he says, suddenly, his eyes darting up to meet yours. You shut your eyes.

“Wa…” your throat is dry, itchy. You hear rustling. He’s holding your head, a glass to your lips. You sip, slowly.

“It’s 1 pm,” he replies, “next day. You had a shitty night. Go back to sleep.”

“Waynes,” you manage to croak, coughing softly. Why does your goddamn torso hurt so much? Did they stomp on it while they were carrying you to their hideout?

“They landed safely. Same with the Brit. They don’t know about what happened to you. Madison’s fine too. She got home before they found her. Rest.” You want to ask, you have so many questions, but you’re still exhausted. You drop back into sleep.

 

Victor’s asleep. He’s splayed out in your reading chair, your copy of _Cane_ open on his chest. It’s strange to see him like this, his body usually a study of sharp lines and blank, minimalist character. He seems, now, more himself, with his head cradled against the back of the chair, his fingers fanned out along the cover and one of the armrests, one knee bent, the other leg out, his chest softly rising and falling, his face calm, relaxed, somehow welcoming, quietly asking to be touched. You want to touch him, run your fingers along his nose, his jaw, his hairless brow and head, let your finger trail down to his soft lips.

You still hurt too much to move, but your throat is dry again. You spy a glass of water on the desk next to your bed. You reach, your hand trembling, for it. Your fingers skim over the edge and your palm thuds against the drawer.

“Thirsty?” Victor hasn’t moved, his eyes just open and fixed on you. You try to clear your throat. Victor moves toward you, then lifts your head and holds the glass at your mouth. You finish it, and two more he pours for you.

“How am I?” You whisper. Victor pours another glass.

“Cosmetic wounds and a few bruises on your face, wound on your neck, gash on your knee, and you’ve got a couple ligature marks on your arms and legs. I’m keeping an eye on your ribs.”

“Is that all?” You sigh; you can see a grin on his face before he stifles it.

“Yeah, badass. Pretty light fare. I’m going to have to change your bandages soon,” he says, setting the glass back on the drawer. “Go back to sleep.” You nod, your head still stinging a bit from the movement. You close your eyes again.

 

Soft music plays. It sounds like…funk?

“Zsasz.” You open your eyes, slowly. Victor is standing next to your window, peering out. It looks dark, as if it’s almost sunrise or sunset. “30 minutes.” He hangs up and turns to look at you. You feel his hand on your forehead.

“I’ll be back in a few hours. Go back to sleep.” You nod, your eyes slipping closed again.

“Tell Carmine I said hello,” you murmur. Victor’s chuckle is the last thing you hear before you drop off, back into sleep.

 

You wake, in the middle of the night. Victor is sitting on the other side of the bed, reading. His shirt unbuttoned at the collar, his shoes off. The suit is fresh, in every sense of the word.

“I’m hungry,” you murmur, coughing softly. He turns to look at you. Closes the book.

“What are you in the mood for, angel?” He brushes a braid behind your ear, traces what you assume to be the outline of a bandage above your right eyebrow.

You sigh. “Everything I want is bad for me. You’ll say no.” Victor grins at you, softly.

“Try me.”

“Pizza.”

“No.”

“Chinese.”

“No.”

“A greasy bacon cheeseburger with an unholy amount of fries.”

“No.” You sigh.

“What do you suggest?” Victor shrugs, a corner of his mouth still twisted into a soft grin.

“I can’t dictate your mood, Wayne.” You narrow your eyes at him.

“A cup of green tea and some toast.” Victor taps your nose with his pointer finger.

“Perfect. I’ll get that started for you.” Your eyes shut, a soft smile hovering on your lips as he swans out. Your body, miraculously, hurts far less. Your knee stings, still, stiffness coming from the bandage wrapped around it. You run your hands across your face: aside from the light bruising around your eye, the wound above your eyebrow, and the thin bandage running along the left side of your jaw, you’re fine. Your chest hurts, but in a vague, sore, achy way rather than the terrifying “oh god my ribs are broken” way they felt when you were in Victor’s car. But still, when he returns with a tea tray heaped with fruit and plates, you clear your throat.

“Are my ribs okay?” Victor tsks as he sets it down next to you, then begins pouring tea into two cups.

“How’s your breathing? Did your chest hurt when you coughed? Can you sit up?” You breathe in, deep, slowly, thinking.

“Okay, no, and…” you murmur, drawing your arms together and pushing yourself up. You feel a twinge on the right side your chest, but that’s it. “I think I’m fine.” Victor arranges the pillows behind your back, and hands you a cup as you settle in.

“Well,” he says, bringing the other to his lips as he stares at you over it. “You just answered your own question. I’m still going to check them later.” You reach over and pluck a piece of toast off the plate.

“How long was I out?”

“Only three days,” Victor replies. You balk, nearly choking on your toast.

“Three days?” You manage. “How hurt was I?”

“You were more tired than hurt.”

“Ugh, well…that explains why my reaction time was so shit in the parking lot,” you sigh.

“Hm.” Your eyes cut over at him.

“What?” Victor shrugs. “You’re thinking something. Tell me.”

“I just…I was thinking that…I was expecting you to be more…vocal in the museum. The exhaustion would certainly explain a lot.”

“Or maybe you just rank your skills too high,” you tease, sipping your tea. Victor fixes you with a look, a look that lights you up inside.

“You seemed to be enjoying yourself until we were interrupted. I have the bite scars on my bottom lip to prove it.” You clear your throat. Victor chuckles as you break eye contact with him. “The moaning tipped me off too, but when you bit me like that, got all tight around my fingers…mm.”

“Are you done?” You reply, slightly flustered. Victor smiles at you over his teacup.

“Give me a minute, I’m just…lingering.”

“How did you find me?” You say; this is taking a turn, and while you wouldn’t mind normally, you’re still a bit groggy and achy. You can’t keep up with his banter just yet. Victor shrugs.

“I saw the window in your dorm, put the pieces together.” Your head tilts as you assess him, his sleeves rolled up, exposing the tally mark scars on each forearm, his shirt collar open, vest off. Your eyes track up to his face, his eyes not meeting yours. You bite your lip.

“So you put together that I was kidnapped by some loan sharks based on a new window?”

“No,” Victor replies; he stares at the toast in your hand, and then looks up at you, eyebrow raised until you bring it to your lips and start eating it again. “I started with who had a grudge against you and ended with the loan sharks.”

“Hm,” you murmur. You smile, softly. “How did you know I didn’t leave with Parker?” Victor’s eyes meet yours, his gaze steady. The corner of his mouth quirks up, a bit.

“I know men like Parker Lede. He’s too handsome to be interesting to you.” You grin, above your cup.

“Too handsome?” Victor nudges a plate of sliced pears over to you. You pick a piece up.

“He’s the kind of man who puts a lackluster amount of effort into everything he does because he knows that his looks and his money will carry him the rest of the way. You looked bored to tears every time he pulled you into conversation.”

He was watching you. All that time. The thought makes you go warm all over. You’d be a liar if you said you didn’t get dressed that night and pick that dress over more modest options at least partially because you hoped he would see you. You think of how he looked at you, before his hands got into you, how he kissed you, and your body responds, immediately.

“I can’t blame him for trying,” Victor murmurs, idly spinning his cup in it’s saucer. “I’m a patient man, but it took a lot of effort not to throw you across one of those displays and fuck you stupid.” You go hot all over at that. You want to reach over and trace across his collarbone with your fingers, your tongue. _Why not_ , you think.

“It’s a shame you didn’t,” you reply, delicately sipping your tea. “It certainly would have livened up the evening.”

“Says the woman who had the see-through dress on,” he fires back, brushing your hair away from your face. You snuggle deeper into your covers. You’re not wearing the stuff you wore out of the museum, you realize. You’re wearing the same soft black t-shirt, bra and panties, but no hoodie or jeans. You shoot him a dubious look, biting your lip to hide your grin.

“Speaking of,” you murmur, plucking a blackberry out of his hands, “do you want to explain why I’m not wearing any trousers?” Victor studiously avoids eye contact with you as he picks up another one.

“I figured you wouldn’t want to lie in your drug lord sheets in dirty clothes,” he replies. You roll your eyes.

“ _Drug lord sheets?_ ” You laugh, then pop the blackberry into your mouth.

“They’re _silk_. Why do you need silk sheets?”

“It’s for my hair and skin,” you protest. “Cotton absorbs moisture.”

“Okay, Ms. _Wayne_ ,” Victor fires back, “whatever keeps you moist.”

“Oh, God,” you cringe, “please never say it like that ever again.”

Victor nods, then moves close to you, your foreheads touching. “Whatever keeps you wet, angel.” He laughs a bit at your disapproving groan, then lifts your cup off the tray and refills it.

“That was inappropriate,” you manage, chewing your bottom lip. “And extremely gross.” Victor turns back to you, brow cocked.

“You asked for it. Drink your tea.” You sigh, glaring at him as you slouch back into a more comfortable position. Your eyes trail over to your phone and a jolt of panic makes your throat tighten.

“Shit,” you say, reaching for it. “I forgot to text Martha, she’s probably losing her mi—”

“I did it already,” Victor nudges your arm and slides the cup into your hands. “Tea, angel.” You take it, your eyes narrowing.

“You did it already?” Victor nods, piling more fruit onto your plate. He picks up your phone, scrolls for a minute, then hands it to you.

 

Mumtha (12:44 am): Text you when we land!

Mumtha (12:46 am): Bruce said he loves you

Mumtha (1:12 am): Forgot to mention, Alfred asked if you could call to have the evergreens pruned next week

Mumtha (5:48 am): Landed!

Mumtha (10:17 am): Good morning, Margo!

Mumtha: (1:54 pm): ?

Mumtha (3:40 pm): Margo, we’re starting to get worried.

Me (3:42 pm): sorry, i’ve been asleep since i got home! tell Bruce i said i love him too. have fun!

 

“Well,” you reply. “You scraped by, but had Thomas read this, you’d have been in a heap of trouble.”

“I was guessing,” he replies. “I think I did alright, relatively speaking.”

“Thank you,” you reply, after a moment. Victor nods. Then says your name. Your full name. Complete with your first name. You look up. “What?”

“Martha called after she sent that text, naturally you weren’t awake so I let it roll to voicemail. She was very upset.” His brow is arched, waiting for an explanation.

“Marguerite is my middle name. I prefer it.”

“Your first name is nice though. You look more like a—”

“Stop,” you snap, before he can say your first name again. “I go by Marguerite. Martha and my dad are the only people in the whole world who use my first name.”

“Why didn’t they just name you Marguerite?”

“Because my dad got first name dibs and he named me after his great-grandmother. My mum gave me my middle name and much to my dad’s irritation I preferred it. I never changed it, I just started going by my middle name.” Victor nods, the corner of his mouth quirking up a bit. Then picks up the tray, walking it over to the desk next to the window.

“Go back to sleep, _Marguerite_. You need it.”

“You’ve got me all _riled up_ now, I don’t know if I’ll be able to,” you reply, chuckling a bit as you slide back into sleeping position. Victor’s eyes fix on you, and he leans down toward you again, his nose just nearly grazing yours. It’s strange, you realize, that a handful of weeks ago, this would have been menacing to you, but now it’s just vaguely arousing.

“Sweetness, we both know that if I really wanted you all riled up, you absolutely would be. Go back to sleep.” Your eyes narrow at him. Of course he’s right but that’s not the _point_. Especially since he’s so insistent on ordering you around. As you open your mouth to fire back, Victor leans in a few inches closer and his lips are on yours, soft and smooth and urgent.

Warmth rushes all over you; you sigh and he presses closer, his tongue sliding into your mouth. You reach forward, silk sheets sliding off your arms, and grip his collar in your hands, gently pulling him toward you, and he obliges, palms pressed against the mattress on either side of you, arms and knees framing you, tongue swirling in your mouth, slowly sinking and pushing the sheets down until you’re kicking them away from your shins. You wince, your knee stinging from the movement. Victor bites your bottom lip, softly, chuckling into your soft gasp. His weight shifts to his knees and you feel his hands brushing up your sides, underneath your shirt to cup your breasts through your bra. Your hands slide, down from Victor’s exposed collarbone, across his stomach, down to his pants, his suspenders tickling the top of your thighs. He’s hard, you can feel him as he presses closer to you, his hands sliding down your sides to grip your hips. He groans into your mouth as you stroke him through the thick wool fabric of his trousers. A moment later and he’s shifted, pushing your legs apart with his knees, his fingers gripped tight around your thighs as he grinds his cock against you. You pull in a sharp breath, then hiss, the twinge in your chest morphing into sharp pain. Victor breaks away from you, eyes searching your face.

“Marguerite?” You wiggle a little, inhaling slowly, shying away from the pain in your chest.

“Just a twinge,” you reply. Victor leans away from you, his eyes fixed on your face.

“Just a twinge,” he repeats, his eyes fixed on yours, unblinking. You bite your lip and nod, your eyes still fixed on his. He looks down at you; as he takes you in, you wind your fingers into his suspenders and pull them, pull him closer to you. Your chest is on fire and your knee is killing you but fuck, you want it. His fingers dance across your stomach, and he grips the edge of your panties, his fingers skimming against the skin underneath the band. You let out a soft whine and he scoffs, gently.

“As much as I’m enjoying how worked up you are,” Victor murmurs; his fingers slide down your warm mound and into your heat. You whine, and stretch, then recoil, your body burning from the mix of his fingertips in you and the unexpected pain. “I don’t think you can handle it right now,” he finishes, stroking your clit. You shiver, squeezing his forearms. Victor’s hands track up to your torso and slowly pull your shirt up. You inhale, softly, your legs squeezing around his waist as the air hits your skin. His eyes flicker from yours to your body.

“This bruise on your chest doesn’t look any better, angel,” he says, pulling your shirt back down. He leans forward, and kisses you, softly. Then climbs off you and pulls the sheets back up to your chin. You stare, your chest aching, as he sits on the other side of the bed again and looks over at you.

“Go back to sleep,” he repeats, returning to his book.

 

“Marguerite.” You open your eyes, blinking away your grogginess. Victor touches your forehead as you shift and turn to look up at him. He brushes your braids away from your face.

“Hey,” you smile, “what time is it?”

“10 am,” he says. “You need to let me change your bandages.” You groan.

“Okay,” you sigh. You fling the sheets off your body and stretch, your fingers brushing the headboard. “Check me.” Your eyes land on Victor’s face as his eyes dance over your body, his eyes fixing on the exposed skin above your waistband.

“You seem like you’re feeling better,” Victor murmurs, his hand going over your face. You grin.

“Sleep is a wondrous thing,” you say, sitting up in bed. All you’ve done for the past four days was sleep and eat and bathe when Victor managed to pry you away from your bed. And it worked; you could finally stretch without convulsing from pain, and the bandage on your knee had been all but removed. Not to mention, you’d gotten more rest and quiet in the last week than you’d had for the last two months of the semester. Victor had been extremely nurturing, cooking and changing your bandages, and the more caring he’d been with you, the more you wanted him. But he seemed extremely intent on just nursing you back to health.

That, you think, simply won’t do.

“How’s your breathing?” Victor says. You rise to your knees, and face him, then slowly pull your sleep shirt over your head, your arms languidly rising as you stretch again. Your loose braids cascade over your bare back and shoulders and you grin, your eyes locking on Victor’s. You drop your shirt, then reach forward and grab his lapel, pulling him onto the bed and toward you. He obliges, going to his knees, his arms wrapping around you, his expression even and neutral, eyes hungry and wanting as your arms go around his neck. You cup the back of his head and pull him down to kiss you. You shiver, melting against him as his lips urgently, eagerly press against yours. He groans, softly, his hands sliding into your hair and across your bare back, and you bite his bottom lip, then lick across it. His fingertips claw against your skin and you inhale sharply. You pull away and open your eyes, grinning at the quietly blissed out expression on his face.

“I think my breathing is good,” you murmur. Victor’s eyes lock on you, his jaw clenching. You run your nails across the back of his neck and bite your bottom lip. “C’mon. Fuck me.”

Victor wastes no time; he crushes his lips to yours and takes you down to the mattress, shoving the covers out of the way. You groan and rip his shirt open, and he throws it off; your hands glide down his solid pale chest and stomach to his pants. A flick of your wrist and you have him, warm and thick, hard and heavy in your hand, and he bites your bottom lip, exhaling sharp, grinding against your palm. You push your pelvis up against him, shift your weight, and he obliges, rolling over until you’re on top. You kiss his neck, his clavicle, your mouth working down to the stretch of skin just above his waistband, and you pull his trousers and boxer briefs down and off. You inhale sharply as you take in his length for the first time, proudly standing at attention, curving to rest against his body. You look up at him; his eyes are fixed on you, his gaze stormy, his fingers winding into your braids trailing across his chest; you give him a long, slow experimental lick, from base to tip and he _shivers_ , lets out a slow exhale. You repeat the motion, then take him into your mouth, sliding down his shaft, then hollowing out your cheeks and slowly coming back up, swirling your tongue around the tip. His hand is in your hair, his grip tightening on the base of your skull, not pushing or yanking, but directing you, gently guiding you as his cock glides in and out of your mouth. You move faster, bobbing along his length, your hands working the base of his cock and cupping his balls. Your head twists on him and he hisses, his grip tightening.

“Fuck, you’re good at that,” he groans; you speed in response. You can feel his cock twitching in your mouth, and you hum, softly, reaching down to touch yourself.

“No, no no no no,” he moans. He twists his hand in your hair and gently pulls you upward, back to his mouth, swallowing your protestations as he slides his tongue into your mouth, as he ruts against you, his cock grinding against your fabric-covered clit.

“I want to taste you,” you sigh against his mouth, and he squeezes your ass with his free hand, slides it into your panties, plays with your wetness.

“You will,” he murmurs. “Lift your hips.” You oblige, and you both slide your panties off your hips and down your legs in one fluid motion, his hand sliding over your ass and slapping it gently, gripping it. You’re straddling him, his hand trailing from your hair to cup a breast, playing with your nipple until it’s erect and you’re sure his stomach is drenched in your juices. He swats at your ass with his other hand again, lightly, and you bury your nails in his forearm, letting out a soft whimper. You raise your hips to let him position himself beneath you. He tsks, then reaches, toward your drawer, yanks it open, pulls out a condom. You gasp, lightly, cheekily grinning.

“Were you snooping, Victor Zsasz?” You say, your voice mock-stern.

“Were you hoping this would happen, sweetness?” He smirks up at you, ripping it open with his teeth. You roll your eyes as he grips your thigh, trembling as he reaches between you and slides it down his length then back up, his thumb brushing against your core. You’re shivering as he skims against your clit.

“No,” you reply airily, meeting his gaze. “I have those around for anyone.”

“Anyone. Riiight,” he murmurs; he runs his hands up your shaking thighs, to your waist.

He grips your waist and pulls you down, slow, millimeter by millimeter until he’s buried in you, tight to the point of pain, stretching you, filling you; your nails claw into the skin on his forearms, leaving red crescent shapes in his skin, alongside the tally marks. He’s breathing heavy underneath you, moving his hips this way and that, giving you a moment to adjust to him in you.

Only a moment.

Victor sits up, his arms going around you, his lips pressing to yours, and you whimper against his mouth, shivering in his arms, your eyes screwed shut tight. God, you’re not sure you’ll be able to hold it together when he starts to move.

“Marguerite,” his thumb goes across your cheek and you open your eyes. “Are you okay?” You nod, breath catching in your throat as he shifts in you. _Fuck._

“I’m just…adjusting,” you manage. Victor leans away, and your breath hitches again, as he cups your face with both hands, eyes searching.

“Are you sure?” You can’t help but laugh a bit at that.

“You ask me this _after_ you shove your massive dick in me?” you reply. “It’s a little late for that.” Victor holds your waist and starts to pull you up.

“Well if you want me to take it ou—” You swat at his hands.

“ _No_.” Victor smirks. His hands slide down from your waist, along your back, to grip your ass, and he pulls you forward, your hips rolling as you start to ride him. Victor’s eyes slip closed as you move, his fingers tightening on your cheeks.

“ _Shit,_ ” he groans, slowly working his hips underneath you. You’re speechless; pain has slid into intense, hot pleasure, and you want to moan, tell him how good you feel, _fuck_ , he feels _amazing_ , but nothing comes out. You’re digging your nails into his shoulders as you bring your hips up, then slide back down on his cock. His face is buried in your throat and you can feel his lips and teeth on your skin, his hands squeezing your ass and shoulder, hard enough that you know you’ll have bruises, that you’ll be feeling the ache hours later.

Victor speeds, incrementally, his hand creeping down from your shoulder to the middle of your back, his mouth going all over, tasting your your lips, biting at your shoulder, and you’re clenching around him, twisting your hips as you bounce on his cock. You’re in a daze, your only focus his hands on you, his cock sliding in and out of you, faster and faster, his breath on your skin, his kisses sending shivery jolts down your spine.

He grips your ass again, tight, letting the skin slide out of his palm as you fuck, and you grin against his mouth.

“Slap it,” you murmur. Victor looks up at you, eyes half lidded, pupils blown wide enough that his dark brown eyes really do look black.

“What?” You lean forward and bite his bottom lip, hard, and his groan vibrates in your throat.

“You heard me,” you say. The sting comes faster and harder than you expected, the sound unexpectedly loud in the room. You let out a sharp “ah!” and you feel him smirk against your exposed throat, before his mouth latches onto your skin and he slaps your ass again, gripping, and letting go, and slapping in time with his strokes. You’re burning up, holding on for dear life as you take him.

“Is this what you wanted?” he pants; the next hit is particularly sharp, and you’re barely able to nod, in response.

“Do you want to come?” He’s going to wreck you, you know it. You want it.

“God, fuck, yes, _please_ ,” you don’t even _care_ how you sound; you’re just hovering on the edge of it and you’re gonna lose your fucking _mind_ if you don’t come soon.

Victor rolls over, sits up, grips your hips tight and _fucks_ you, ramming into you fast, hard, sharp, his eyes fixed on your face. You’re gripping sheets, pillows, the headboard, _anything_ that will give you leverage enough to take it. You’re moaning, begging, whimpering, your nerves dancing on the edge of everything as he thrusts into you, as you keep your eyes, half lidded and locked on his. Oh, having him look at you like _that_ while he touches you like _this_ is almost too much.

He reaches up, into the curve between your neck and shoulder; he catches a grip on an upstroke, pulling you down hard to match his strokes, his thumb slipping and pressing hard into the dip above your clavicle. Oh. _Fuck_. You clench around his cock, gasping, your back arching, your eyes fluttering closed. You grasp at his wrist when it feels like he’s going to let go. His thumb stays against the base of your throat for a few more strokes, but then, oh _then_ , his hand moves to wrap around your neck. His palm presses against the side of your throat, and he _holds you_ , his grip only tightening slightly to keep you in place while he fucks you. You’re panting, whimpering; Victor hits a stroke particularly hard, your back arches, his nails sink into your neck, and you’re gone; your breath hitches as you quiver around him.

When you come, it’s a relief, like your body is vibrating apart, bursting into waves of energy, the fire in your body radiating out and consuming you. You moan, loudly, raggedly, shaking under him, sinking your nails into the sheets, clenching around him as he sloppily rams into you, one, two, three, four more times and comes, collapsing on top of you, his head buried in your shoulder, his hands still on your thigh and around your neck.

Neither of you move for a long time, your bodies sweaty and tangling together. Victor finally, lazily raises his arm, presses his palm into the mattress next to you and rolls off, lying next to you, panting.

“Goddamn, Wayne,” he pants. “Goddamn.”

“Likewise, Zsasz,” you reply, pulling your hair off your neck. You breathe, slowly, calmly, stretching languidly on the sheets. You feel a feather-light touch on your torso and open your eyes. Zsasz is lying on his side, facing you, running his fingers across your ribcage.

“You seem be feeling better,” he says, his eyes fixed on yours. You smile, rolling your eyes.

“I am, thank you,” you reply, wiggling away from his fingers. “That tickles.” Victorpulls away from you and you turn over to look at him. He meets your gaze, then sits up. He rises from the mattress, cock in hand, and walks into the adjoining bathroom. (How. How is he walking around you’re just _now_ regaining the feeling in your _face_?) Then returns, and collapses into bed next to you, his arms curling underneath a pillow.

“You like being choked,” he says, simply. You try not to react and fail, squirming as you turn to look at him. There’s a soft smirk on his face, and that’s enough to get you to look at him and smirk back.

“You liked choking me,” you reply.

“I liked how you _reacted_ to me choking you, there’s a difference,” he says; he raises his hand and brushes his finger across your collar bone. A shiver climbs up your spine. “I like hurting people. But I’m afraid of hurting you.”

“That is simultaneously flattering and terrifying,” you say, smiling a bit despite yourself.

“It’s the truth,” he murmurs. His eyes are downcast; he looks nervous. It suddenly clicks for you, what he’s saying, and you smile even wider.

“I like you too,” you say. Victor’s eyes dart back up to yours. The look in his eyes is…unexpected. He looks almost…scared. Then he rises, holding the pillow he was just lounging on.

“So,” he says shortly, “breakfast.” You nod, sitting up on your elbows.

“I suppose it’s my turn to cook, hm?” He smirks as he stands in front of you, nudging your still-trembling thighs apart with his knees. Mercy, is he beautiful. His skin smooth and soft, stretching over a strong, hard body. His big, pretty hazel eyes are on you, watching as he drops the pillow on the floor and kneels between your legs.

“No need, sweetness,” he murmurs. He slowly kisses his way up your thighs, then pulls you to the edge of the bed, throwing your legs over his shoulders. “I’m perfectly fine with this.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this and I'm sweating. Just a little. Whew!  
> Probably two more chapter updates before the summer ends. Maybe three, depending on how fast I can type!
> 
> And as always, thank you so much for the kudos and comments. Y'all. You make my heart so warm. I really appreciate them and you!

**Author's Note:**

> So! This is gonna be longform. And probably cover parts of the show itself. I have a lot of ideas. This may turn into a series, depending on how much I'm feeling my oats. Either way, I can't wait to share them with y'all!
> 
> This is actually my first character/reader fic, and if I don't make myself publish I will chicken out FOREVER so here it is!
> 
> Story title: "Glass & Patron" by FKA Twigs  
> Chapter title: "Get Some" by Lykke Li
> 
> You get points if you clocked the John Mulaney reference. <3


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